Unfortunate that the line between the two was slim and easily crossed, especially this year. Snow in summer could transform even the most brilliant man into a lunatic.
“If I might make a suggestion,” Sanders ventured.
“Go on.”
“If you travel to London at once, Your Grace, you may take part in the final weeks of the season. You will find many potential brides there and can determine which lady would suit you best.” Sanders’s thin, sun-browned face softened under its thatch of grayish hair. “Once they meet you in person, Your Grace, they will surely be charmed, and all scurrilous gossip will be refuted.”
“Charmed, Sanders? I haven’t charmed anyone since I learned to walk and talk.” Except for that brief, bright flash of time in London.
Years ago. Unnecessary even to recall it. At this stage of life, he was as likely to charm a wife as he was to plop a turban on his head and charm a cobra.
“I would be delighted to travel to London in your stead, Your Grace,” Sanders said, “but I doubt I should answer the purpose to the young ladies of town.”
“Shall I, though?” Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes. “A madman. The mad duke. ‘The mad duke’s bride hunt.’ Why, the scandal-rag headlines almost write themselves.”
Sanders shuffled his feet. Michael made a dismissive gesture. “It doesn’t matter,” he lied. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do to save the dukedom.”
That much was quite true.
Was it mad to care for one’s legacy? To make the well-being of his tenants his purpose in life? To trust his land more than the people who had betrayed him so often, so long ago?
Society thought so, and back into its maw he must go—though his escape last time had been narrow indeed. But to save Wyverne, he would do anything. Even go to London; even sell himself for coin.
He only hoped he would fetch a high price.
***
July 3
London
“Wyverne has reopened his house in St. James’s Square,” drawled Andrew, Baron Hart, as he pulled on his breeches. “First time in at least a decade he’s come to Town during the season. Should be amusing to see what he gets up to, don’t you think?”
Caroline Graves, the widowed Countess of Stratton, paused in twisting her wheat-colored hair into a loose chignon. She stared at Hart’s roguish reflection in the shield-shaped glass above her dressing table. “Wyverne? That’s impossible. Everyone knows he never leaves Lancashire.”
Ignoring the startled thump of her heart, she poked a pin into her coiled locks, then adjusted her expression until it reflected nothing more than mild disbelief and milder amusement.
“Back he is, though,” Hart said. “Wonder what drove him here? I’ve heard his pockets are completely empty nowadays. Might be something to do with that.”
“I cannot imagine, Hart,” Caroline said in a carefully careless tone, turning her head to check the effect of her upswept hair. “You might be right. He could be seeking investors for… whatever scheme it is he’s pursuing nowadays.”
It was a system of irrigation canals into moorland, she knew, though there was no reason she should know such a thing.
“Rather prosy, that. I hope it’s something more colorful than a hunt for capital. You once got in a bit of trouble over him, didn’t you?”
She shrugged; the cap sleeve of her chemise slipped from one shoulder. “Nothing to speak of. I’ve since been in far worse trouble over far better men than Wyverne.”
The first part was certainly true. The second part—she wasn’t sure. She’d never been sure, where Wyverne was concerned, whether his carelessness was the simple arrogance of the aristocracy or whether it cloaked something far deeper.
Maybe it didn’t matter. The damage he caused was the same either way.
In the glass, Caroline saw Hart stretch, then approach her. He knew the effect of his person quite well. His torso was lean and muscled, like a sculpture. And just as if it were a sculpture, she stroked his contours with her eyes without being the slightest bit aroused.
But he would expect her to be aroused, would he not? She thought of Wyverne and allowed her cheeks to flush.
Hart grinned. “Can’t blame a man for getting into trouble with you, Caro. But Wyverne’s mad, isn’t he?”
“He’s harmless enough,” Caroline answered in a voice as smooth and colorless as cream. This was false, though his harm did not come from lack of sanity.
“They’re betting at White’s that he’ll be committed to Bedlam before the season’s out.”
“Impossible,” she said again, turning to face Hart. “He has no close relatives. Who would dare try to have him committed?”
Hart blinked in surprise, and Caroline added swiftly, “One never knows, of course. It’s possible he’ll create a scandal.” Again.
Hart looked gratified to have Caroline enter into his game. Scandal was one of his favorite words. “Didn’t think of him as a ladies’ man, Caro. Do you suppose he’ll come join your court? Be one of your admirers?” He reached out a questing forefinger, his roguish grin confident and possessive.
Caroline allowed him to stroke her arm, caress her collarbone. Such small intimacies held no true intimacy at all when they were shared among many.
This was protection of a sort. As a wealthy widow, she held as much power as a woman could hold in society. She played her admirers against one another without the smallest intention of letting any of them draw truly close to her.
In a way, Wyverne had made her what she was. And now, after all these years, Wyverne was back.
This time, she was prepared for him.
“I doubt His Grace will concern himself with me.” Caroline increased the brightness of her smile until Hart staggered back, dazzled, and sat on the edge of her bed. “And I am certainly not concerned with him. Especially not now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what you think. Just what you might be hoping.” She rose from her seat before the dressing table and sashayed to the bed. With a sweep of her arm, she threw back the green damask bedcovers and the bed sheets.
Hart stared up at her like a child who could not believe he had just been offered another serving of apple tart. “By God, Caro, you’re a wonder.”
Despite her fast reputation, rare was the man Caroline welcomed to her bed. She chose lovers by toting up the positives and negatives, choosing the man with the most of the former and the fewest of the latter. Hart had won her over with a combination of a handsome face, a fine figure, and indomitable persistence.
And with dark hair and green eyes—ah, she had a weakness for those. Though just why, and of whom Hart reminded her, she hadn’t allowed herself to consider for a long time.
Nor would she consider it now. Wyverne had no place in her life anymore. Really, he never had. He had made that clear enough eleven years earlier.
With determined force, Caroline pressed Hart to the bed and drew from him the fleeting oblivion of her own pleasure.
Two
Bump.
In Lady Applewood’s crowded ballroom, it was impossible not to jostle others. The slim maiden who had just backed into Michael, giggling and chattering, was the seventh to do so.
And as with the previous six, the smile on her lips disappeared as soon as she saw who was behind her. “Oh. Your Grace? Do pardon me—I didn’t—that is…”
Fan aflutter, eyes darting wildly, she skittered away into the crowd. Such was her haste that she left a torn flounce behind.
And they called him mad. At least he could complete a sentence.
“Think nothing of it,” he muttered. He quashed the urge to shudder off the close contact, the press of so many bodies. A London ballroom was the best hunting ground for a wealthy wife—if only the women didn’t scatter like partridges whenever he came near.
Thi
s afternoon, he had seen a caricature posted in a printshop window: a wild-eyed hunchback wearing a ducal coronet of gold strawberry leaves. In one hand, the creature held a shovel; in the other, an empty purse. He lunged, slavering, for a lily-pale maiden in court dress.
Nonsense of the lowest order. Michael had never been the sort to lunge for maidens, and his shoulders were perfectly square. And he hadn’t dug his land’s canals himself—though what would be the harm if he had?
Great harm, evidently. The scandal rags had done their work, and thoroughly: the women of London were convinced of his madness. They wanted a Lancelot or a Galahad, not an eccentric Merlin.
A swat stung his forearm. Michael sucked in an impatient breath, the “it’s quite all right” waiting upon his lips.
“I vow, Wyverne, I wasn’t sure how you’d turn out, given the talk of… well. Well!”
Someone was actually addressing him. How novel. He looked down at the small, rounded form of his hostess, the Marchioness of Applewood. Once a slender beauty, she had retained her good cheer far better than she had her figure.
With another swat on his forearm, she beamed up at him. “It’s lovely to see you after all these years, dear Wyverne.”
“Thank you.” He tried to draw his arm out of her reach. “For the invitation.”
The middle-aged marchioness dimpled, reaching up to pat his cheek. “Of course! As I was your last hostess when you were in London so long ago, I wanted to be your first hostess this time. Wicked man!”
Michael flinched—from the unexpected touch or the mention of that long-ago ball. Or both. Despite the world’s whispers, he had never felt truly mad until that single night. After he took Caroline Ward in his arms…
He crushed that thought as he would a walnut shell. No.
“You are the absolute image of your father, you are.” Lady Applewood flushed rosy under her face paint, and she spoke low beneath the din in the ballroom. “He was a handsome devil too, and he always did have a tendre for me. Such a flirt! Only do not tell my husband I said that, I beg you. Applewood is such a jealous creature.”
“Ah.” Any further reply was made unnecessary when her ladyship batted him on the arm yet again.
“Such a wicked man!” She beamed at him. “But I knew you’d understand. Now, we ought to find you someone to dance with, shouldn’t we? I would love to stand up with you myself, but—”
“Applewood is such a jealous creature,” repeated Michael. This earned him another giggle, another bat upon the arm.
“Precisely! Ah, just like your father.”
The headache sounded a warning gong in his temples. “I resemble my late father in very little besides appearance,” he ground out. Then stopping himself, he tried to formulate a pleasant smile. “This was much to his dismay.”
Of all the women in the ton, he would have considered Lady Applewood least likely to extend him an invitation. But perhaps she hoped for another serving of gossip, such as he had given rise to at her ball all those years ago. Or maybe her mummified affection for his departed father led her to look on him kindly. Whatever the reason, he needed every scrap of such goodwill until he found his footing in society.
The heat of the ballroom pressed upon him all at once: candle flames, wool coats, and hundreds of bodies. A clamor of laughter and chatter in his ears. Perfume, sweet and cloying over the earthy odor of perspiration.
The headache cracked its figurative knuckles and settled in for a long visit.
No. He must ward it off. Fresh air, that was what he needed. There was a terrace to one side of the ballroom.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Applewood,” he blurted, remembering to bow over her hand. “Please excuse me.”
Twisting aside to avoid the woman’s farewell swat upon the forearm, he threaded through the crowd in the direction of the terrace. Dandies and matrons and maidens drew away from him as he passed, whispering, their wide eyes searching his own for wildness. Looking over his form for evidence of a crooked back, no doubt, or inspecting his hands for the roughness of shocking labor.
His arms were painfully tense from shoulder to fingertips. He hadn’t expected the rumors to take root so deeply, to outweigh the lure of his title. Nor had he predicted that the only woman to look on him kindly would do so for his damned father’s sake.
At last, he reached the edge of the high-ceilinged ballroom. Making fists of his aching hands, he pushed open a French door and stepped onto the terrace.
He drew a deep breath through his nose, expecting clean, cool night air to clear the pounding from his head. But London air did not bite and wake him with its crispness, as did the air on the Lancashire moors. Even in this freakish, chill summer, the air hung heavy and oily with coal smoke. It coated Michael’s lungs and further fogged his head. It reminded him how far he was from where he ought to be.
Still, the quiet was welcome. And the cheerful marchioness had gone to great effort to make the outside of her London mansion as welcoming as most people found the inside. Hanging lanterns warmed the sweep of stone with mottled light, their glass painted with red and gold scrollwork.
As he should have guessed, the effect was irresistible to couples in search of seclusion. His eyes adjusting from the dazzling ballroom to the starlit sky, he could see several shadowy blobs, each the shape of two bodies pressed tightly together. As silently as he could, he crossed the stone terrace and sank onto a bench away from the sight of would-be lovers.
Another deep breath, and the headache began to loosen its grip. A few more minutes of silence and it would slink away. Then he would decide what to do next.
But the silence ended almost at once. “No, Stratton. I will not allow it.”
A woman’s voice rang out, cool and formal, much louder than the murmurs of lovers in the twilight.
A deeper, placating rumble, then the ringing female voice again. “It wouldn’t be proper, Stratton, and you know how concerned I am with propriety.” The voice held a bubble of laughter this time, but it popped abruptly. “Now you must excuse me. I have to return to my friends.”
Friends. Fortunate lady. Likely she had a dance lined up, and this fool was keeping her from someone whose company she preferred. Michael shut his eyes and wondered how long it would take for an eligible woman to agree to marry him, or even to agree to speak with him. For how long were caricatures posted in the windows of printers’ shops?
The voice was louder now. “Stratton, this is unwise of you. Remember what I did last time you wouldn’t release me as I asked.”
A pause. “You mistake the matter if you think I am bluffing.” The sweet tone had gone steely.
Michael opened his eyes. The woman sounded as though she could take care of herself, but the man was insistent. And no one seemed to hear them except Michael. He squinted back at the bright, whirling ballroom. Indoors was a genteel chaos of music and laughter, heedless of the unfolding drama outside.
Michael deliberated for an instant. He must not do anything that seemed mad, for God’s sake. But he could not let a woman be menaced.
He stood and strode forward out of the shadows, allowing his feet to thump on the stone of the terrace. Moving directly under a painted lantern, he leaned on the sturdy balustrade, allowing his presence to become known to the too-persistent man.
From here, he could overlook the great house’s gardens. They looked tranquil and still, the darkness broken only by the firefly wink of tiny lanterns.
A hand touched his arm. “Ah, here you are. It is time for our dance. I’ve been looking forward to it with such anticipation.”
The female voice that had bitten so coldly at the unwanted suitor. Now it was warm, even flirtatious. Michael’s skin prickled under the pressure of the slim, gloved hand. He turned his head to the side, to see who had approached him.
“Caroline Ward.” His numb lips shaped the name before cons
ulting with his brain. His brain conjured delight and dread, then was unable to decide between the two.
His eyes alone were unbothered, gulping the sight of her. She was still a vision of loveliness, tall and curving and fair-haired, with light eyes and a cherry-ripe smile.
And she was touching his arm.
Too close. She was too close. His muscles went into spasm, painful twitches that yanked at his bones. “I beg your pardon, Miss Wa… madam.” Was she married? Surely she had married by now. “You must have mistaken someone else’s dance for mine.” Michael rolled his forearm in an attempt to remove it from her grasp.
“Nonsense, Wyverne. I could never mistake you.” Her voice was sweet and warm, but her gaze remained flinty. Her fingers tightened on his arm as a man drew near them.
Anyone observing her from a small distance would see only the brightness of her smile, the intimacy of her possessive hand. But Michael stood close enough to see the plea in her eyes. Ignorant though he might be of the ton’s rules and foibles, this message was clear enough.
She needed his help. That was all. Wyverne, she called him. He was used to being Wyverne, to offering help to his tenants. He could help her too.
If only she would stop touching him. The sensation was too unsettling to be borne.
“Of course,” Michael choked out. “It would be my honor… ah…”
“Wyverne, I’ve told you time and again. You absolutely must call me Caroline, or Caro if you like. There’s no need for this silly formality of Lady Stratton between us.”
Clever woman, to supply him with her name so smoothly. “As you wish, Caro.” So. She had married, and married an aristocrat. He supposed that was what she had always wanted.
Her unwanted companion drew alongside Michael and Caroline. He made an unlikely predator: mild featured, of middling height, with light brown hair that was beginning to race away from his temples and forehead. His clothing was fashionable without being flamboyant.
Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress Page 29