Free To Charm a Naughty Countess by Theresa Romain Page A

gear.
    Then she realized: the lovely cast-bronze lamp that had stood on the pianoforte was now lying across its lid. In pieces. And Michael was poking through them with the furtive eagerness of an anatomist, afraid his precious stolen corpse would be taken away at any second.
    Damnation. When she had called him a dratted duke earlier, that was a much milder epithet than he deserved.
    She marched over to him and, without preamble, hissed, “This is no way to convince Miss Weatherby of your sanity.”
    At the sound of her voice, he flinched, startled. The gear slipped from his fingers and pinged off of the etched glass globe.
    Caroline affixed a pleasant smile over her face, then ventured a look at the card table. Indeed, Miss Weatherby’s pale face was turned in their direction.
    Caroline hoped the young woman continued to be intrigued rather than dismayed, though she could imagine no one but Michael being intrigued by the innards of a lamp.
    “What are you doing?” she whispered, keeping her smile carefully hung in place.
    To her surprise, he smiled back.
    The change in his face was startling. The faint, careworn lines at his eyes became crinkles of joy, and his sharp cheekbones softened with the press of his mouth. His teeth were even, his mouth a delight. This was a revel of happiness, as it could only be felt by a man for whom it was rare.
    And such happiness was over nothing but a damned lamp. He had never chosen to bestow that expression of bliss on Caroline for her own sake.
    “It’s a Carcel lamp,” he said. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
    Her voice was harsher than it might have been had he looked less transfigured. “It might have been once. Now it’s nothing but a pile of rubbish.”
    “I wanted to see how it worked,” he said, as if this were an obvious sentiment. “Look at this gear, right here. It drives the most ingenious clockwork pump. Do you know how a Carcel lamp works?”
    “Of course I do,” Caroline lied. “Keep your voice down. Miss Weatherby is watching.”
    Michael seemed not to hear her. “I haven’t been able to get one of these in Lancashire, and I’ve always wondered how the pump operates. See how it drives the oil upward? That way, you needn’t have a heavy oil reservoir above the light itself.” He smiled again. “Thank you for bringing me tonight. This is a genuine pleasure.”
    Caroline choked. Michael ignored every fatted calf the ton could offer and instead glutted himself on lamp oil.
    She really shouldn’t be surprised. “I’m delighted to have fulfilled the first day of our contract to your satisfaction. But you must put the lamp back together and quickly. Can you?”
    Michael shook his head. “I’m not done studying it yet.”
    “Michael, you are in London. You can buy your own Carcel lamp and spend the whole night taking it apart. But you must put this one back together. Now. ”
    He stared at her, seeming taken aback. She pressed her lips together, counted to five, then tried again. “Did you not promise to rely on my judgment?”
    A long pause, as his evergreen eyes searched her face. Then he nodded and began sifting through the litter of glass and metal.
    “I’m going to earn every bit of our eventual triumph,” she murmured, handing him a gear that went rolling toward the edge of the pianoforte.
    “Our triumph?” He squinted at her.
    “Finding you a rich wife. You won’t make it easy if you insist on conducting mechanical experiments in the middle of a dinner party.”
    His eyebrows knit. “I did not intend to tax you with a great burden. If you recall, you made the offer of assistance unprompted by me. And you may decline to continue it at any time.”
    “You have to stop saying that every time I tell you something you don’t like.” She laid a hand on his arm, remembering his aversion to touch only when he froze, tensed. She lifted her hand at once. “Michael, such aid is more than I’ve ever offered anyone else. You might not see it as an honor