Free To Charm a Naughty Countess by Theresa Romain

looked gratified enough.
    “If it is worthy of you, then it will be intoxicating indeed.” He lowered his voice. “May I call on you tonight?”
    She mulled over the request. The idea of using Hart for her own pleasure did not appeal to her; it had not for some weeks. “Not tonight. I have too many things to plan.”
    This mitigated his disappointment by a fraction. “Do you? Are you preparing for a party?”
    “Not at present. I am scheming strategies to advance the suit of my ward.”
    “Your ward?” His brows knit until Caroline nodded at Michael, who was still scribbling away at his letter. “Oh. Wyverne.” Hart gave her an odd look. “He’s a duke, Caro, and quite mad. He doesn’t need your help, and he won’t notice or care if he doesn’t get it.”
    He grinned as though this was all rather funny, but Caroline went cold all over. He doesn’t need your help .
    Hart thought so. Maybe everyone thought so. It was what she feared most: that she was useless.
    Oh, men wanted her money. They coveted her body. Women envied her prestige. But Caroline herself, the woman beneath the lacquered surface? No one needed her at all.
    And if Hart was right, Michael had as little concern for her as he would a splotch of ink on his waistcoat. Just as he had eleven years before.
    He was certainly heedless of her efforts on his behalf. Still he worked on his letter, ignoring Miss Weatherby, slicing away at his chance of success with every stroke of his pen.
    “He is not mad, Hart,” Caroline said with determined calm. “Only unique. And someone has to help him.”
    “If you insist.” Hart still looked skeptical. “But why need that someone be you, Caro? No one expects that of you.”
    “Maybe that’s why I want to be the one,” she murmured. She smoothed the coquelicot taffeta of her dress.
    Coquelicot . Not merely red; never such an everyday color as that. She had trained herself to think in intricacies of form and dress, and she could not stop now. It was foolish to wish to be more than lovely, wealthy Lady Stratton—especially when she had once been so much less.
    She didn’t realize Hart had heard her until he repeated her words. “You want to be the one.”
    “Never mind, Hart.” She tilted her chin down so the lamplight would shadow her cheekbones, make her eyes deep and mysterious. Hart usually found the effect distracting in quite a nice way.
    Not this time. “No, no. You merely surprised me, Caro. I didn’t expect… well. I understand. I hope to see you again soon, one way or another.”
    With a bow, he left her. He walked over to the velvet-covered card table and whispered in Lady Tallant’s ear. Something quite roguish, apparently, for Emily laughed and waved a slip of paper at Hart.
    “Just because it’s your name doesn’t mean it’s your property. All hearts are not your possession. This paper is a reminder for Jemmy.”
    “Dash it,” said the earl, making a grab for the paper. “Leave it on the table, Hart. Em and I are up by seven pounds.”
    Caroline smiled. The earl’s abysmal memory for card play was surpassed only by his unflagging good humor.
    On another evening, she would have joined the small group at the card table, perhaps finding someone to flirt with, soaking up compliments until she stopped feeling quite so empty.
    That last thing Hart had said—that I didn’t expect —nagged at her. What did he mean? Had she grown so predictable, living in the tight little box of her Albemarle Street house, seeing the same people all the time? Spending her days with fashion and flowers and laughter?
    When one had grown up as poor as she, it was difficult to get enough of such luxury. But maybe her decorative tendencies had become a golden chain, holding her back from accomplishing… well, more. Somehow.
    She blinked. The light had gone dimmer, and Michael was no longer sitting at the writing desk.
    He was standing at the pianoforte, holding a—what was that? It looked like a small metal