To Charm a Naughty Countess by Theresa Romain Page A

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