Read Online To Charm a Naughty Countess by Theresa Romain - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Theresa Romain
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that forced oil up into the wick. A great improvement over the old Argands that still cast their shadow-marred, top-heavy lights in every room of Callows, his Lancashire seat.
He could have fixed the shipments of Carcels, of course, if he had ever examined an unbroken one and understood how their delicate inner workings fit together.
Hmm.
Like a moth, he was pulled to the light of the lamp. He removed its globe-shaped shade, forgetting everything except the hot little flame at his fingertips.
Six
“What is Wyverne doing here, Caro?”
A fashionable dandy Hart might be, but Caroline had always known his tousled hair covered a head with no lack of sense. In this way, he resembled Michael more than any other man-about-town Caroline had met.
Her eyes turned to Michael himself, who sat at a writing desk. As she watched, he tapped the feathered barb of a pen against his paper, then began scribbling again at a furious rate. Likely that flecks of ink were spattering his cravat and the lovely malachite-green silk of his waistcoat. Likelier still he would neither notice nor care.
She looked back to Hart. He deserved better than this constant comparison with another.
“He is here at my request,” she replied at last. “I am helping him.”
“To what end?”
“To the end that preoccupies everyone in society: money. I am helping him find a rich wife.” A small incline of her head toward Miss Weatherby. “What do you think of my choice?”
Hart shook his head. “Considering she’s chosen to partner her mother at cards rather than approach Mad Michael, I’d say she’s not amenable.”
Mad Michael. Caroline had forgotten this old nickname for the Duke of Wyverne. If the ton still bandied it about, his rehabilitation might be more difficult than she had expected.
She adopted a careless tone. “I think it’s gone rather well so far. I do not expect him to seek a special license right away or to drop to one knee and profess his love tonight. But see how she looks to him every time her attention is freed from her cards? She is intrigued.”
“Either that or she’s wondering what kind of madman comes to a dinner party only to catch up on his correspondence.”
“A busy man. He oversees a dukedom even while he’s in London.”
Hart raised a curious brow. “I have a country estate, and you don’t see me dragging my tedious affairs around with me. I know how to amuse myself, and others.”
Unmistakable hint. Caroline ignored it. “Maybe so, Hart, but you’ve lived differently from Wyverne. He prefers to grip his holdings tightly.”
“Yet they are now in danger of slipping from his grasp.”
Caroline nibbled at her lip, a pensive gesture that drew attention to its fullness. “Yes, true. I cannot fathom how it’s happened.”
This was no exaggeration. How was it that Michael faced ruin when he kept a vigilant watch on his estates? When his care for them occupied his every waking moment and probably robbed him of sleep? How, too, could men such as Hart stay solvent when they gave more attention to the tailoring of their coats in a week than to the management of their holdings in a year?
Perhaps nothing but the everlasting winter had changed Michael’s plans. Or perhaps it was something deeper within Michael—that unique quality the world stamped and sealed mad .
Where he was concerned, she kept running into that wall of incomprehension. She would not break through it with Hart, so she turned resolutely away to a subject she knew quite well.
“What do you think of my gown, Hart? The modiste told me this shade was all the rage.”
“Coquelicot, is it not?” Hart smiled. “Isn’t that the color on everyone’s lips today?”
“Ah, so you heard about my promised carnation. I hope it will have a pleasant scent. I find the natural perfume of a flower intoxicating.”
She felt weary—or worse, wearisome—as she said this. Flirtatious words fell heavily as stones from her tongue tonight, though Hart
He could have fixed the shipments of Carcels, of course, if he had ever examined an unbroken one and understood how their delicate inner workings fit together.
Hmm.
Like a moth, he was pulled to the light of the lamp. He removed its globe-shaped shade, forgetting everything except the hot little flame at his fingertips.
Six
“What is Wyverne doing here, Caro?”
A fashionable dandy Hart might be, but Caroline had always known his tousled hair covered a head with no lack of sense. In this way, he resembled Michael more than any other man-about-town Caroline had met.
Her eyes turned to Michael himself, who sat at a writing desk. As she watched, he tapped the feathered barb of a pen against his paper, then began scribbling again at a furious rate. Likely that flecks of ink were spattering his cravat and the lovely malachite-green silk of his waistcoat. Likelier still he would neither notice nor care.
She looked back to Hart. He deserved better than this constant comparison with another.
“He is here at my request,” she replied at last. “I am helping him.”
“To what end?”
“To the end that preoccupies everyone in society: money. I am helping him find a rich wife.” A small incline of her head toward Miss Weatherby. “What do you think of my choice?”
Hart shook his head. “Considering she’s chosen to partner her mother at cards rather than approach Mad Michael, I’d say she’s not amenable.”
Mad Michael. Caroline had forgotten this old nickname for the Duke of Wyverne. If the ton still bandied it about, his rehabilitation might be more difficult than she had expected.
She adopted a careless tone. “I think it’s gone rather well so far. I do not expect him to seek a special license right away or to drop to one knee and profess his love tonight. But see how she looks to him every time her attention is freed from her cards? She is intrigued.”
“Either that or she’s wondering what kind of madman comes to a dinner party only to catch up on his correspondence.”
“A busy man. He oversees a dukedom even while he’s in London.”
Hart raised a curious brow. “I have a country estate, and you don’t see me dragging my tedious affairs around with me. I know how to amuse myself, and others.”
Unmistakable hint. Caroline ignored it. “Maybe so, Hart, but you’ve lived differently from Wyverne. He prefers to grip his holdings tightly.”
“Yet they are now in danger of slipping from his grasp.”
Caroline nibbled at her lip, a pensive gesture that drew attention to its fullness. “Yes, true. I cannot fathom how it’s happened.”
This was no exaggeration. How was it that Michael faced ruin when he kept a vigilant watch on his estates? When his care for them occupied his every waking moment and probably robbed him of sleep? How, too, could men such as Hart stay solvent when they gave more attention to the tailoring of their coats in a week than to the management of their holdings in a year?
Perhaps nothing but the everlasting winter had changed Michael’s plans. Or perhaps it was something deeper within Michael—that unique quality the world stamped and sealed mad .
Where he was concerned, she kept running into that wall of incomprehension. She would not break through it with Hart, so she turned resolutely away to a subject she knew quite well.
“What do you think of my gown, Hart? The modiste told me this shade was all the rage.”
“Coquelicot, is it not?” Hart smiled. “Isn’t that the color on everyone’s lips today?”
“Ah, so you heard about my promised carnation. I hope it will have a pleasant scent. I find the natural perfume of a flower intoxicating.”
She felt weary—or worse, wearisome—as she said this. Flirtatious words fell heavily as stones from her tongue tonight, though Hart
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