To Charm a Naughty Countess by Theresa Romain Page B

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