Michael grinned in earnest while Hugh protested with some animation. “How very kind, my lord.” He inclined his head closer. “I take it Hugh has informed you of my plans.”
“He has,” Lord Sterling replied. “I’ll do what I can, to be sure, but I’ll draw the line at matchmaking and gossiping. If you’re looking for that, you’ll have to call on Janet’s services.”
Hugh coughed a laugh but said nothing.
Michael only scowled. “That’s not what I have in mind at all. Why does everyone seem to think my goal is to marry?”
Lord Sterling reared back, though his mouth pulled in amusement. “You have opted to reinvent yourself because Charlotte has decided to marry. Why wouldn’t that imply that you’re determined to marry also?”
Was that what he’d said? That wasn’t what he’d meant; for pity’s sake, he only wanted distance from Charlotte to spare his own feelings while she pursued marriage. He hadn’t even considered pursuing the thing himself.
“That isn’t what I want,” he muttered, averting his eyes from the Sterling brothers to take in the dancing.
“No? Well, better not throw that sort of mood around when you enter a ballroom more crowded than mine. The topic is bound to come up,” Lord Sterling warned, his words lacking all sympathy. “I’ve asked around, and your prospects are quite good. Not only will the eager mamas be thinking marriage, they will be naming your firstborn the moment you dance with their daughter.”
Michael closed his eyes again, shaking his head. “And people wonder why I hate Society and social occasions.”
“Nobody wonders that,” Lord Sterling laughed as he patted Michael’s shoulder. “Most of us hate it. If you truly want to avoid all this, take yourself out of London and marry a sweet country girl at your own pace. Since you’re avoiding Charlotte and all.”
“I am not…” Michael began, turning to argue, only to find that Lord Sterling had left them to greet some of his other guests.
How was one supposed to retort anything when the subject departed prematurely? Clearly, Lord Sterling wanted the final word, and had to prove a point.
“I’m not altogether certain I’m particularly fond of your brother,” Michael told Hugh as he glowered after their host.
“Yes, well.” Hugh shrugged a shoulder. “He tends to have that effect on people. Ah, good. The dance is ending, and Tyrone will deliver my wife to me.”
Michael scoffed very softly. “And have you missed her terribly?”
Hugh gave him a sidelong look. “You’re not exactly in a position to mock my attentiveness to my wife, Sandford, and we both know it. I need only say the word lapdog, I think.”
The word drew in Michael’s breath almost at once, his chest seizing with the truth and pain of it. He was right; more than that, Michael could never mock any lovesick man or woman again. Years of only circling Charlotte, lingering at the edges of her attention, praying that she might call on him for a dance to separate herself from the pack. He had been the definition of a desperate man, made pathetic by love, and now that he saw it for what it was, he felt only embarrassment.
“Kindly look less nauseated at the sight of my approaching wife, thank you.”
Michael blinked and looked up, forcing his lips to curve upwards, though he wasn’t sure how much of a smile it was. Mrs. Sterling, fair-haired beauty she was, grinned brightly on the arm of the darker Mr. Demaris, her eyes fixed on her husband with a single-mindedness that felt too intimate to witness.
Still, Michael nodded in greeting. “Mrs. Sterling, you look remarkably well this evening.”
She glanced at him, her smile not wavering. “And as you have remarked, it proves your statement true. Thank you, Mr. Sandford.” She tilted her head as she slid her arm from Tyrone’s. “And please, call me Elinor. Were we in another setting, you know you would. You’ve done so before.”
Michael smiled, exhaling carefully. “That was before your marriage, Mrs. Sterling, and under far different circumstances.”
Elinor chuckled with more warmth than he had ever heard from her. “Michael, you’ve known me since I was twelve, at least. That’s longer than your youngest sister, and you’ve been calling me Elinor for most of them. Surely you’re not going to let a little thing like my marriage create a barrier between us.”
He continued to smile, though he blanched mentally. Elinor was thick as thieves with Charlotte and the rest. How could he continue familiarity with her when he was stretching himself further away from Charlotte? Then again, he had all but bound himself to Elinor’s husband in pursuit of his new aims, and he could hardly expect Hugh to keep secrets from his wife.
“Of course not, Elinor,” Michael eventually assured her, dipping his chin. “So long as your husband doesn’t get insanely jealous that I do.”
Hugh chortled and took his wife’s hand, kissing her glove. “I will fight the impulse to rage and roar and take solace in the knowledge that my wife adores me above all others.”
“Too right, she does.” Elinor turned his face to hers and planted a firm kiss on his lips.
Michael and Mr. Demaris looked at each other in shock, then looked away quickly.
Elinor giggled and eyed them both. “Apologies, gentlemen. The benefits of a small event in our family’s home, we can be as affectionate as we choose, and no one will think us scandalous.”
“No, only disturbing,” Tyrone commented under his breath.
Michael nodded once in agreement.
Hugh cleared his throat, his color high. “I’ll thank you both not to judge.”
“Presently, I’m trying to blot it out, so judging anyone isn’t exactly at the forefront of my mind.” Tyrone widened his eyes and gave Michael a strained look. “Sandford, isn’t it?”
Michael nodded, relieved that someone else was as uncomfortable as he. “Yes. Pleased to be remembered, Mr. Demaris.”
Tyrone waved that off. “I remember everyone; it’s a curse. Not necessarily in your case, especially since I have a strong feeling you and I are going to be saving each other regularly for the foreseeable future. And since there are a great many influential members of the Demaris family, you might as well call me Tyrone.” He shrugged and swiped a nearby beverage. “But watch out, you may make Sterling here jealous with familiarity between us.”
Elinor cackled a laugh that had Hugh scowling at both her and Tyrone. “Now I understand why Janet despairs of you.”
If the statement ruffled any feathers for Tyrone, he gave no sign. He only downed his drink, shrugging yet again. “Better to despair of me than hope for me. Far less chance of disappointment.”
“A pity you aren’t truly a villain, then,” Elinor suggested with a teasing smile. “Then they might wash their hands of you completely.”
“I find villainy to be more trouble than it’s worth,” Tyrone countered with a sage shake of his head. “One does not wish to be rendered irredeemable, after all. No, I am simply not to be counted on, which gives me a remarkable amount of freedom.”
Michael found himself smiling at the outspoken man in amusement. “And yet you seem to be one of the most eligible bachelors in London, if the Spinsters are to be believed.”
“On that note,” Elinor announced loudly, dragging Hugh away before the conversation could move further.
Tyrone scowled in earnest as the two of them departed. “That blasted column. I was perfectly content living in obscurity until then. The only unmarried person who cared a jot about my activities was Annabelle Wintermere, and I’ve grown quite adept at avoiding her. Now…” He gestured around the room, which, though hardly crowded or full, boasted at least three young ladies eyeing the pair of them speculatively.
“Good heavens,” Michael coughed. “I should stand somewhere else.”
“Too late, my friend. I’ve tainted you. Which, as I understand it, was the goal all along.” He quirked an inquiring brow and waited, his mouth curving in a crooked smirk.
Michael met the shorter man’s eyes steadily, then looked out at the
dancing without much interest. “Yes, I suppose it is. Against my better judgment, I aim to make myself more appealing to the general populace, including, if I must, those of an unmarried disposition.”
Tyrone grunted once. “Didn’t realize marriage was a disposition. I rather thought it was a state, and one not entirely rising above that of despair.”
“You’re a cynic,” Michael pointed out without venom, actually finding the dark humor more and more entertaining by the minute.
“Of course I am. I’m an English gentleman.”
Michael choked on a laugh, which seemed to entertain Tyrone, and left the two of them snickering by themselves as they watched the dancing without any intention of joining it.
“So, you are trying to be popular,” Tyrone eventually said in a more normal tone. “Pressure from your family?”
“Always.” Michael nodded, exhaling slowly. “Nothing too drastic. I don’t need to marry money or a title, we aren’t in danger or anything like. She simply thinks I am wasting my time and that matrimony would cure me of it.”
Tyrone made a face of consideration. “Interesting. And are you? Wasting your time, that is.”
Michael opened his mouth to protest, as he had done so many times before over the years, then, irregularly, found himself closing his mouth without a single syllable escaping. A moment of reflection was needed this time, and some honesty.
“Yes,” he heard himself admit. “Yes, I am. Or rather, I was. The realization of the thing has made me wish for a change in my life, and while I’m not intending to seek out a match, I won’t precisely oppose one.”
Tyrone blinked at him, completely baffled. “Well, well. Aren’t you a delightful surprise for the mamas hereabouts?”
Michael would have shrugged himself had Tyrone not filled the evening with the action already. He’d been fully prepared to endure some ribbing from a various number of sources when his opinions and aims were made known, and in gaining some new friends for himself, it was only natural that it should take place. Had he not wasted his time, he might have escaped this, too.
But he could not look back anymore. Only forward. Only ahead.
“I could use your help,” Michael murmured to Tyrone as the pair of them took another set of drinks. “Sterling is a good fellow for taking me on, but he is already married, and the nature of his marriage is such…”
“I’ll save you from the sentimentality of the thing, never fear,” Tyrone overrode. “A lump of sense is worth a pinch of sentimentality.” He frowned, then chuckled ruefully. “Isn’t that the title of the book that woman wrote? Sense and Sentimentality?”
Michael bit his tongue hard, thinking how Charlotte would have blustered and harrumphed about Miss Austen being referred to as ‘that woman’ and for one of her titles to be so incorrectly named. She’d have thrown the offender out of the house, whether it was her own or someone else’s.
“Something of the sort, I never read them.” Michael hid a smile behind a sip of his drink.
Tyrone sighed. “Nor I, and had I any sisters, I am sure that would be a great sin. My female cousins seem to think I lack awareness of the feminine tastes of today, but I don’t consider that a failing. If women wished for a man who completely understood them, they’d be marrying a mirror.”
At that moment, a young lady passed them, eyeing them both with a boldness that ought to have made Michael squirm. The beauty in her features only made him smile in spite of himself, dipping his chin.
“Well played, madam,” Tyrone told her, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Come back with a proper and creative introduction, and I’ll engage you for whichever dance you please.”
Her eyes widened, as did her smile, and with a flick of a suddenly appearing fan, she sauntered off, presumably to find such an introduction.
Michael reeled at the bizarre interaction. He had spent hours of his life at a time in ballrooms, enough that they likely added up to several weeks, and never had he seen something so blatant that was completely without the accompanying words. There was such a discrepancy between the two that he had to replay the exchange in his head repeatedly.
Charlotte had flirted and teased, undoubtedly danced with the line of propriety, but never once strayed overtly into indecency. The toffs that had crowded her over the years had spouted off flowering words and phrases, creating themselves into buffoons of the utmost caliber, yet seemed to stumble over their excessive politeness. Now and again, there had been a cad of sorts among the group, but somehow Charlotte encouraged decorum in her presence, despite being an imp herself.
She was a paradox and yet more easily understood than what he had just witnessed.
Clearly, he had a great deal to learn.
“What in the world was that?” Michael asked Tyrone with a laugh, wishing he didn’t feel like such a dunce at the moment.
Tyrone looked at him in surprise. “What was what?”
Michael gestured. “That interaction with the young lady.”
“Flirting?” Tyrone asked slowly, as though Michael were all of twelve years old and had discovered the mystery of growing attraction to a girl. “The unspoken invitation between a man and a woman hidden in the words we do speak?”
There was nothing to do but stare at the man without expression, finding no entertainment in his words whatsoever.
But Tyrone Demaris wasn’t going to budge, his face a mask that only just concealed his amusement at Michael’s expense. A master at work, and there was no mistaking it. It was obvious he felt that Michael could benefit from his influence; he was absolutely certain of it.
“I’d hardly call that flirting,” Michael grumbled, finishing his drink quickly. “I don’t know if there’s a name for it, but it wouldn’t exactly please the matrons at Almack’s.”
“Then it’s a ruddy good thing we’re at Sterling House instead, isn’t it?” Tyrone nudged him playfully. “Sandford, you’ve got to play the moments as they come. Not every woman wants you to bow perfectly over hand and kiss the air above her glove. There’s an art to wooing, and it requires you to pay attention.”
Michael raised a brow in lieu of glowering. “I thought we were not focusing solely on matrimonial prospects. I am quite sure I said so.”
Tyrone inclined his head towards the far side of the room, indicating they should walk. “There is a shocking misconception about the word wooing, and of its uses. One must woo everyone in order to be liked, male and female, young and old. I’ve even tried my hand at wooing Miranda Sterling’s bloodhound, but the blasted creature is too thick to take a liking after all my efforts.”
The mention of the famed Rufus made Michael smile, trying to picture Tyrone’s attempts in persuading the beast to like him. “I’ve no doubt the animal is a peculiar one, or perhaps he is only a merciless judge of character.”
“Don’t defend the rascal,” Tyrone ordered curtly. “It’s all Miranda’s doing, and one of these days, I will find a way behind her machinations. At any rate, that is beside the point.”
“Is it?”
The musicians struck up a rather bright song with a quick tempo, and Tyrone groaned, weaving behind the line of people closest to the dancing, neatly turning his back to the dancing as he did so.
“Yes,” he hissed, his dark brow lowering. “If you want to be liked, you have to be likable, and that requires some very careful, very strategic wooing, especially since you’re already established in Society.”
“As what?” Michael inquired with a narrowing of his eyes. “What am I established as?”
Tyrone only shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You want to change it, so you’ve got to change. Wooing, Sandford.”
Michael considered that as he sidled up to a nearby wall, leaning without much concern for appearances. “What makes you so knowledgeable in such things? I thought you said you lived in obscurity before your sudden rise to fame?”
“How do you think I managed to maintain my obscurity, despite my family name, my fortune, and my
eligibility?” Tyrone demanded with a smug smile. “The art of evasion is rather like the art of wooing, and I learned at a very young age how to do both quite well enough to get what I wanted. I can help you to recreate yourself, Sandford, but you’re going to have to decide who you want to be first. And what it is you want.”
Who he wanted to be?
Why not himself?
Well, himself had never really been much of a figure, not since his much younger years, so there wasn’t all that much to be, in that regard. Yet he had not been entirely without being or personality, he’d simply spent a deal of time considering someone else instead. Nothing wrong in that, per se, but he had somehow managed to completely neglect himself until he hardly existed in truth without Charlotte. Tragic, Hugh had called it. Yes, that was a far better word than pathetic. The tragic loss of Michael Sandford had been occurring for years without anybody noticing.
What did he want?
The image of Charlotte floated into his mind, laughing at something he had said in the many moments they had been alone in her home, unchaperoned because he was Michael.
He was safe. He wasn’t a threat. Wasn’t an option.
“I see the two of you have made a great deal of progress,” Hugh teased as he approached with his brother in tow.
They had, in fact, though not so much that the eye could behold it.
Michael looked at the brothers with a smile. “Lost your wives, I see.”
“For the moment,” Lord Sterling allowed, returning the smile. “Until they miss us with such abandon, they seek us out, tears flowing and arms outstretched.”
Tyrone shook his head. “And to think, you could have been an actor on the stage. Such a pity. Cards, gentlemen? I give us three decent rounds of loo before Janet crowns me over the head for ignoring her female guests and forces me to dance again.”
Lord Sterling nodded once. “Four rounds. She’s currently in conversation with your mother.”
Hugh snickered uncontrollably while Tyrone attempted to find some way to defend his mother without disagreeing, and Michael, feeling rather legless in the face of his newfound realizations, followed the group of them out of the ballroom.
Spinster Ever After Page 7