To Charm a Naughty Countess

by Theresa Romain

  And somehow, they were always tied to Caroline.

  He grimaced as he stared out the window of his carriage at a sliding, cold rain that obscured the fallow fields outside. A rain that pitted the roads on which he drove, turning country passes into slippery troughs of mud.

  For the second time in his life, he left London behind, but this time he would not forget it. He had seen the kindnesses and comforts threaded through the shallow chaos of the beau monde, and he saw the value of moving easily within that world.

  Now that he had slept with Caro, he understood the soaring joy of physical passion. But he also understood the pain of complete vulnerability. Business before pleasure, Caroline had said. That was his way, and he would not be permitted any other. The realization, the rejection, had shaken his body to its very marrow. The panic of this prison he had built for himself—it had threatened to unmake him, even as she watched.

  Though he little resembled the caricatures of the scandal rags, they weren’t entirely wrong. The everyday tasks that came easily to others—talking of the weather, dancing, laughing, flirting, lovemaking—were a struggle to him. Perhaps he really was mad, just as the ton said. Just as his own father had believed.

  The carriage lurched heavily, knocking Michael’s head against the window. He wished it could jolt free his unpleasant thoughts. They seemed to be wearing a groove in his brain as deep as the ruts in the road.

  The relief of homecoming was delayed for endless dull days in a carriage, long nights in coaching houses. The land seemed wilder, rougher, bleaker than he remembered. After the macadamized streets of London, the sodden, mucky roads were bone-jarringly rough under his carriage’s old, groaning springs. The public house rooms seemed colder than he recalled, the sheets threadbare. He noticed every instance of peeling paint, rotted wood; every slatternly servant who gave him food that was neither cooked nor served well.

  As they traveled steadily north, the cold clutched more closely at everything, creeping through every gap in the carriage, stiffening blankets and joints, tiring the horses and drivers.

  Had the world died yet a bit further while he was gone? Or was the change within himself?

  He was annoyed with himself, to have developed a taste for the ease of London so quickly. Or was he seeing it all through Caroline’s eyes now, imagining what she would think of Lancashire? Surely she would look with disappointment on the secret provinces of his life, his tattered dukedom.

  Or maybe she had woken his flesh, and now it simply yearned for pleasure.

  He could only hope that when he saw Callows, he would feel that sense of rightness again. For now, he had the uncomfortable feeling of having shirked his duty, of having let himself become distracted from his goal, ensnared by his own disobedient body. He had shared himself with a woman who would never do the same.

  The human heart was far more confusing than any ledger. So he had long known. But he hadn’t truly experienced the full, damning agony of that knowledge until now.

  If he couldn’t convince Caroline to marry him, after all that had passed between them, then why should anyone marry him? And how could he shackle himself to another when he had invested in her as surely as other men invested in the funds?

  Now he was sure of nothing except that he wanted her again and that he could never trust himself with her.

  ***

  Sanders’s homely face was brown and creased as a walnut as he smiled a welcome to Michael.

  “It’s good to see you, Your Grace.” The steward doffed his hat, working its brim in his thin fingers. The inevitable chilly drizzle plastered his gray-brown hair to his head and darkened the drab tweed of his coat.

  “You needn’t have come outside to greet me,” Michael said gruffly, marching up the front steps of Callows.

  But he was pleased all the same. He cut his eyes sideways at Sanders, and the older man smiled, his gold teeth glinting bright in the watery remnants of daylight.

  Sanders was the same as always: nondescript, pleasant. For the first time since Michael’s disastrous second proposal to Caroline, he felt a slow bleed of comfort through his chilled body.

  Callows was the same, too. All solid dun-colored gritstone, its Elizabethan façade had scarcely changed since the stately home had been built. Solid and blocky except for its three watchful towers, their sharp-angled crenellations softened by centuries of wind and rain. The inner court was cobbled with many of the same stones that had helped along the wheels of carriages under the rules of Elizabeth, James, and the assorted Georges who had followed.

  Michael and Sanders stepped inside, and Michael handed off his sodden greatcoat and hat to a waiting servant. The great door closed behind them with the familiar scrape and thump of determined wood against a resistant stone frame.

  Here was Callows, reassuringly familiar, simple and sturdy, and beautiful in its usefulness. The rich, dark wood of the staircase, with its thick, turned balusters and smooth-worn treads. The wide, stained-glass window at the turn of the staircase. The peat fire that roared at one end of the great hall, frustrated by its inability to banish the chill. Above the fireplace—big enough to hold a dozen men—hung the Wyverne coat of arms. The history of his family, larger than life.

  It had looked exactly the same when Michael returned from London eleven years earlier, not knowing he was soon to become Wyverne. Surely it would be the same after someone else was Wyverne in his place. He simply had to find a way to safeguard it.

  A new way, that is. His grandiose plans for improvement had, to date, possessed the opposite effect.

  At Michael’s side, Sanders dripped quietly on the marble tiles and took on the mouthful-of-glass-beads expression he always adopted when he would prefer to avoid a subject. After champing his gold teeth together, he ventured, “Will the new duchess be joining us soon, Your Grace?”

  Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There is no such lady, Sanders.”

  The steward was silent for so long that Michael turned his attention back to the man’s weather-beaten face. It held an expression he had never seen before.

  “Sanders, you look ghastly. What is it?”

  “I… I am sorry, Your Grace. I should not…”

  “Should not look ghastly?”

  Sanders managed a tiny smile. “I should not have suggested the journey to London. I see now that it was a hardship for you, and I am sure the fruitlessness is discouraging.”

  Michael looked up at the coat of arms and felt the weight of his title settle into position on his shoulders. It was his responsibility to care for everyone in his dukedom—even for his steward, who had served the family for decades, whose responsibilities had begun long before Michael ever became duke. It was understandable that Sanders felt responsible for Michael too. But it was not fitting; it was not fair to the older man.

  “As a matter of fact,” Michael said in a voice of determined cheer, “it was not fruitless. I have in one of my trunks two dozen of the finest Carcel lamps London had to offer. I have also refreshed my wardrobe. And I have consented to a small house party, to commence here in one week’s time. I may yet find a duchess among its number.”

  He might. He had no idea. When Caroline had sent her house-party plans to him by messenger, the sight of her rounded scrawl had made his head pound, made him ache with desperate want. In the end, he had simply inscribed Do as you see fit. That had put an end to her notes.

  He was glad of that. Probably.

  Sanders was still goggling at the revelation that they were to host guests, so Michael added, “I thank you for your concern, Sanders. But you must know it was entirely my choice to travel to London. And it is entirely my doing that I have somehow returned without a bride. On me lie Wyverne’s problems, along with the responsibility for their remedies.”

  Now that he was back in the solitude of Callows, he felt all the farther from a solution. A small com
partment of his mind wondered if Caroline would still aid him if and when she arrived for the house party. She had promised him her company at six events, after all, and only two had taken place.

  Three, if one counted that glassed-in morning during which she taught him to dance.

  Four, if one counted their outburst of passion.

  He must not think of such numbers. He locked the treacherous memories away.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Sanders lowered his eyes. “One week’s time.”

  Michael surveyed the stretching hall, the staunch steward, his own drizzle-dampened garments.

  He had never brought London into this world. The idea of doing so sapped some of the home’s familiarity, like a favorite coat gone shapeless in the rain.

  On that subject: “I must change my clothing, Sanders,” Michael said. “You should too, since you caught as much rain as I did. Once you’re dry, if you’ll see to the unpacking of the Carcel lamps, we shall meet in my study so you can inform me of all that went on here during my absence.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Michael was not sure whether he imagined it, but at this barrage of orders, Sanders seemed relieved.

  It was good for everyone that he was home again—himself, most of all.

  ***

  “You’ve done well, Sanders.” Michael offered his servant what he hoped was a bracing smile.

  The steward straightened with some effort, blinking groggily across the battered leather top of the walnut desk in Michael’s study. Scarred and stained by decades of carelessness with penknives and ink, the desk was covered with ledgers of the household accounts, the tenants’ affairs, observations on the weather, and any other scraps of information the steward had recorded during his employer’s weeks in London.

  Michael had been looking over these papers with Sanders for three hours, as soon as they could both dry themselves and fill and trim a Carcel lamp. Sanders had dutifully professed to be impressed by the superiority of the lamp’s light.

  For his part, Michael was impressed by the records kept by his staff in his absence. Here and there, they had departed slightly from his preferred methods of arranging figures, or they had made minor errors in subtraction on some account.

  Subtraction, it always was. Never addition this year.

  But these were minor considerations. It was pleasant to discover that few surprises had awaited his return.

  Michael rolled his knotted shoulders and leaned back into his favorite chair, an ancient wood monstrosity with tatty velvet upholstery worn to the precise angles of his back and rear.

  Arse, Caroline’s voice said in his mind, and a spasm of heat gripped his body before he dismissed it with an effort of will.

  She would not compliment his appearance now. All the garments he customarily wore in Lancashire were serviceable and shabby from long use: a plain cotton shirt with no neckcloth, a flannel waistcoat, worn breeches, leather boots rubbed raw by walks through heather and mud.

  These clothes suited the cold weather and the work he liked to do. They suited him. But they would not suit his London guests. Soon enough, he would have to starch himself up again and go hunting for coin. He could not continue this subtraction indefinitely.

  Sanders’s jaw clamped shut on a yawn. “Thank you, Your Grace. Of course, the household accounts were kept by Candleforth and his wife.” The butler and housekeeper. Relics of Michael’s grandfather, they were as devoted to Wyverne as was Sanders.

  The knot between Michael’s shoulders loosened slightly. “I shall thank them for their excellent service as well.”

  Sanders bobbed his head. “About the money…”

  Michael passed a quick hand over his eyes, willing them not to squint against a hard truth. He needed to see it, and clearly. “I’m about at the end of my rope, aren’t I? Your letters to London did say that credit was extended for a short time, but…” He trailed off, not wanting to complete the sentence. It’s too much to hope that will continue after I withdrew into Wyverne House like the madman all London thinks I am.

  And who was to say they were wrong? He had gone mad after Caroline refused him. Mad enough to shake his body apart.

  Sanders cleared his throat. “That’s not precisely… that is, I can give you some assurance of a potential avenue for—”

  Michael lifted his head and let his arms thump onto a ledger. “Sanders, please. Plain speech.”

  The steward sucked in a breath. “I was able to arrange funds to cover the servants’ salaries and the interest on your debts, for now. But in approximately two more months…”

  “I’ll no longer be able to borrow, and I’ll have to beg or steal. Or marry.”

  “Just so,” agreed the steward with a gray ghost of a smile.

  Michael interlaced his fingers with great care. “Best to know the truth. Let’s have some coffee before we continue with the next ledger.”

  Again, that look of glass beads between the teeth—or somewhere rather more uncomfortable. Michael broke in before Sanders could begin another flurry of obfuscation. “Do tell. No coffee?”

  The servant lowered his head in seeming shame. “I took it upon myself to economize in your absence, Your Grace, including such household luxuries as—”

  “Never mind,” Michael said. “That’s all right, Sanders.”

  He wanted very badly to heave a sigh, gulp a hot cup of coffee, and banish the dry, grinding feeling at his temples. But he recalled that in London, Lady Tallant had not even been able to purchase the fruits she wanted, and she was a wealthy countess living in the foremost city on earth. Michael had neither money nor proximity on his side; winter had placed such everyday indulgences as coffee and hothouse fruits firmly out of his reach.

  But he would have to reach them somehow. Absently, he squared papers and ledgers with the sides of his desk. “Sanders, we shall have to have coffee within the week for the house party. Beeswax candles too.”

  Nothing but the finest for his guests. It was a calculated risk, to gamble his remaining funds to try to win a wealthy bride. This must be the last in the long string of gambles that he had thought would help his dukedom. He had lost the others; he could not lose this one.

  Confronted with a difficulty, his brain began to shuffle options. “We had better check the conservatory. It’s too late to plant anything, but there might be some exotic foods in there to supplement what would otherwise be lacking.” He started to stand, ready to stride off to inventory the great glass addition’s holdings.

  Sanders nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ll see to it.”

  Michael froze halfway out of his chair. He looked at Sanders. The older man was scribbling a note onto a piece of foolscap.

  I’ll see to it, Sanders had said.

  It had not occurred to Michael to relax the grip in which he held Wyverne. Not once he returned and could get back to tramping through fields, climbing onto roofs, checking and rechecking to make sure everything was running as it should.

  But it was not an unpleasant idea to let Sanders see to this small task. In truth, Michael was tired, and if no coffee was to be had, he was not sure how long he could stave off the weariness tugging at his eyelids.

  He lowered himself into his chair again. This was a small matter in which to trust Sanders, after being required to trust him with such large matters over the past several weeks.

  Sanders looked up from his notes. “Your Grace, how many guests are expected?”

  “I estimate two dozen, though I didn’t get a confirmed count from Lady Stratton before leaving London.”

  “Two dozen, give or take a few. Leave it to me, Your Grace. I shall work with Mrs. Candleforth to secure the food and household items necessary.”

  Leave it to me. That meant the same thing as I’ll see to it.

  If Sanders had been a woman, Michael might have suspected him of playing at seduction. Ther
e was nothing more desirable in the world, and nothing less certain, than the promise of a trust fulfilled.

  But Sanders had proved himself worthy during Michael’s absence, had he not? He had not done perfectly—but not even Michael had done perfectly. His penury was proof of that.

  “Very well, Sanders. See to it.” Both he and the steward pretended that this exchange was everyday, rather than something more momentous. Almost as momentous as Michael going to London or dragging a passel of the beau monde back to Lancashire after him.

  Michael leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, tapping them against his chin. “For my part, I must contrive a way to keep my illustrious guests so well entertained that they notice no deficiencies in the weather or the Town comforts to which they are accustomed.”

  The endless winter was, for once, not the most chilling thing on Michael’s mind.

  Sixteen

  If Caroline considered the numbers, Michael’s house party was not off to an auspicious beginning.

  With seventeen other guests, she had spent the last four days jouncing north over rutted roads.

  Two hours after their arrival, they had congregated in the Callows drawing room and prepared to head in to dinner.

  But not one drop of brandy had been consumed, because no one knew where the host kept his liquor, and the host himself was nowhere in sight. And Caroline wanted a brandy like a pig wanted a truffle, because she didn’t quite know what to make of her surroundings.

  The drawing room was old-fashioned and cavernous, with dark red wallpaper, a scattering of heavy furniture, and a sour-smelling peat fire that promised, with its brightness, a warmth on which it entirely failed to deliver. The whole room looked well-tended, but also well-worn, as though no one much cared about making the place cheerful or fashionable.

  Which was probably the truth of it.