Free To Charm a Naughty Countess by Theresa Romain Page B

right now, but I’m asking you to trust me. You will get what you want if you do.”
    He studied his sleeve as if her fingers had left scorch marks on the fabric. Then he looked at her again with that unnervingly focused attention. “Do you truly know what I want?”
    His voice vibrated through her, soft and deep, and her throat went tight with a longing to swallow the sound and hold it inside of her. She didn’t know how to answer, for she could not again offer perfect frankness of her own: I hope so. Oh, how I wish.
    Her scheme was failing. Rather than learning his secrets from a safe distance—placing another woman between them as a shield—she was only tying herself to Michael more intimately. And he did not even know it.
    Then a massy figure bustled up next to her, calling, “La! Whatever are you doing, Your Grace?”
    Mrs. Weatherby had abandoned the card table, and her pale daughter had flitted after her. The banker’s wife sounded like a displeased governess, and Michael lifted his chin—probably ready to say I beg your pardon in a devastatingly cool tone.
    Caroline hurried to intervene. “His Grace was simply showing me the workings of the Carcel lamp. Isn’t it fascinating? It’s clockwork, you know.” She spoke blandly, as though she hadn’t only learned this five minutes before and against her will.
    “Er… yes, my lady.” Mrs. Weatherby stumbled over the words. “Yes, I believe my husband keeps one in his study. They are rather fascinating.”
    Miss Weatherby did not smile. She only looked gravely up, up, at Michael’s tall frame—as though he had disassembled a dream of hers along with the lamp’s inner workings.
    And maybe he had. A banker’s daughter might aspire to a noble husband, but not to an indifferent noble with eccentric interests. Miss Weatherby held one of the richest dowries of the season. No doubt a marquess would do as well as a duke for her if it meant she’d have a fashionable, predictable husband.
    She was a pleasant girl, but Caroline now realized: she was far too mild for a man such as Michael.
    This did not feel like the failure it ought to have.
    For the next few minutes, Mrs. Weatherby chatted about the appointment of her husband’s study. Caroline, ornamental as any gewgaw, could discuss fabrics and furnishings as long as needed. Long enough for the formidable duenna to forgive any social trespasses.
    Not long enough, though, for the daughter to shake off her disappointment. And not long enough for Michael to understand what had gone wrong in the first place.
    Caroline finally managed to coax the Weatherby women back to the card table. Hart had slipped into a seat in their absence; as he stood, he caught Caroline’s eye. If expressions could be written in words, this was as bold an I told you so as she’d ever seen.
    She hoped he could read her own expression: oh, shut up.
    “Everything all right, Caro?” Emily lifted her eyebrows.
    Caroline had too much pride to entrust her old friend with complete honesty in this case. “Of course, darling. His Grace has been edifying me, that is all.”
    Emily’s mouth crimped. “Do let me know if he has any luck. I’ve never held out the slightest hope for your edification, myself.”
    “I hold out as much for mine as I do for yours,” Caroline said sweetly, patting Emily on the shoulder. “Brutus, darling.”
    “If I’m to be called a traitor, I prefer Benedict Arnold.” Emily picked her cards back up and rearranged a few. “A much fresher reference.”
    “Bond Street,” said her husband, his brow furrowed as he searched his own cards. “Em, what was trump again?”
    Hart laughed; Emily sighed. Caroline said, “What about Bond Street?”
    Jem looked up from his cards. “That’s where we got the lamp. Can’t think of the shop name, but Sowerberry can help you with that. Our butler, you know. Wyverne seems to like the lamp. He should get one.”
    He looked down at his cards again. “Can’t think how I’ve