Chapter 2 #2
This morning had been one ridiculous mishap after the next. First his Aunt Dora and her absurd group of friends persistently offering to arrange a marriage for him, and now this.
“I’ll pay for your hackney cab on one condition.” Claire rummaged in her small beaded reticule.
“What’s that, m’lady?”
“That you forget this man’s name and his address. He’s not up for grabs, you see.”
“All right, then.” The young lady accepted the coin from Claire’s gloved fingers. “Lovely doing business, m’lady.”
She bobbed some butchery of a curtsy and hustled to the door. The footmen followed quickly after, as if to make sure she didn’t attempt to shove an expensive vase into her ill-fitting bodice on the way out.
Michael stared after them, his eyes wide.
“Really, Michael,” Claire said, “you should tell your butler to be more careful.”
Michael privately agreed, but at the moment he was too worn out to say as much. He collapsed into an upholstered armchair. A moment later, Claire thrust a teacup in his direction. He accepted it, swigging back the hot substance so quickly he coughed.
“That was delightful, though,” Claire mused. “Much more entertaining than Vauxhall’s. You should have seen your face!”
“I’m thrilled you enjoyed yourself.” He felt wrung out by the exchange. “Claire, what on earth are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, of course.”
“Why?”
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“It is when they’ve refused to talk to you for the past four years.”
She gave a noncommittal hum as if she would neither argue with him nor confirm what he’d said. The truth was their families had once been very close. They had once been very close. They’d grown up together.
Michael thought he’d first fallen in love with Claire Preston when he was approximately ten years old. His childlike infatuation had matured right along with the rest of him, so he’d done the honorable thing and waited until she was presented. Then he’d started courting her.
That apparently had been a disastrous mistake, because abruptly, approximately four years ago, everything had changed.
Claire no longer spoke to him. Claire no longer looked at him.
If he said something to her in front of others where she was obligated to reply, she gave as short an answer as possible with a benign smile that infuriated him.
Before whatever happened had happened, they’d been in one another’s confidence. They’d joked about people, had shared their unabridged thoughts on a variety of topics. They’d been dear friends. He still did not know what had occurred to change it all—though he had his suspicions.
“I’m supposed to fence Lord Austin in an hour,” he said, though he didn’t rise like he should have, if he were earnest about her exit.
“You always did prefer to fight those who weren’t as skilled as you.”
“It’s not like that.” He shook his head. “I’m teaching him.”
“Teaching him not to bet on his own inferior abilities, no doubt.”
Michael sighed. This was how it was between them now. Claire thought the worst of him, though he couldn’t figure out why.
She shook her head and pressed her thin lips together. “I haven’t come to fight.”
Though it was rude, he blew on his tea while he waited for her to continue.
“You may have heard that my sisters and I are to have a Season.” She placed her teacup perfectly back upon the saucer without a clink.
Michael nodded. “I’d heard that.”
He didn’t want to admit that his stomach had jerked with the news of it. Claire and her sisters hadn’t been seen in London society for nearly four years. He suspected he was one of the only people who knew the true reason behind it.
“And I’ve decided to marry,” she said.
A fist gripped Michael’s heart and squeezed—so she’d already found a husband.
It was no wonder. Claire had always been a beauty, and the last four years had honed her into something that was sharply so.
She was elegant and regal, and he couldn’t help but wish a calamitous death upon whoever had asked her.
“Congratulations,” he grunted. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”
Claire wrinkled her nose as if he was being purposefully stupid. “I’ve not yet chosen him.”
That was a different thing altogether. If she was not yet engaged, then perhaps there was still… He shook his head, trying to chase the pointless hope away.
“Which brings me back to my original point. Why are you here?” He arched his eyebrow. “Or perhaps I’m the lucky man?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Two spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. He knew her too well to delude himself into thinking it was a blush at his words. More likely it was anger.
“Well, if you haven’t come to propose, then…”
“As you and I both know—and apparently all of Cheapside as well,” she said with a tilt of her head toward the door where the young woman had just exited, “you are a rake.” Claire said the word with all the gravitas of a judge pronouncing a death sentence.
“If you say so.” He swigged the rest of his tea.
There had been a time years ago when he’d displayed some overly indulgent tendencies.
Granted, he was quite a bit younger and had just come into his inheritance.
It was a rollicking, rowdy six months full of boisterous highs and more than a few regretful mornings.
But he’d never extended such behavior towards the female set, and he hadn’t sunk into such a furrow of behavior that one could reasonably call him a rake.
Yet in true Claire fashion, she’d extrapolated that his—quite normal, by all accounts—behavior meant that he was a libertine of the highest order. It was a poor comfort to him that lately she was prickly with everyone.
Claire nodded as if they’d come to some sort of agreement on the matter. “I’ve decided that a rake is the last kind of man I would ever want to marry.”
Michael sighed, longing to flop his head back upon the chair.
On one hand, he was grateful that she was here speaking to him as forthrightly as she once had, as if they were still friends.
On the other, she’d just barged into his house, witnessed possibly one of the most embarrassing moments of his life, declared him a rake, and then proclaimed that he was the last man she’d ever want to marry.
It was no wonder he’d always thought of her as a sort of winter storm—beautiful and tempestuous and liable to freeze a man to the core if he wasn’t prepared to weather it.
“Wonderful. I’m thrilled to hear it. May I please go?”
Claire blinked as if surprised by the acrimony in his voice, as if it were a shock that she’d offended him.
When several moments passed in silence, he prompted, “What did you need?”
When she looked up, she looked more confused than angry. “I need your help.”
“With what?”
“You know as well as I do that there will be rumors as to where my sisters and I have been. Rumors as to why I had the one Season and then disappeared.”
He nodded. There already were rumors. He’d heard some outlandish ones—that Claire had been married and widowed already…
that she and her sister Lily had traveled to America, found wealthy husbands, and murdered them…
that they’d gone to France to become dancers…
that one of them had married a Maharaja in India and stolen all of his gold…
“You should know better than to listen to rumors. I do.” He arched his eyebrow as if to drive home his point. “If you don’t like the untrue rumors being spread about you, perhaps you shouldn’t listen to the untrue rumors about me.”
She frowned.
Michael knew she wouldn’t see it that way. Claire was a force of nature. She was a winter storm, yes; he also thought she was like a glacier—something cold and unmovable. Once she was frozen, there was no hope of her thawing again. At least, that had been his experience.
When she didn’t reply, he sighed and said, “I don’t understand what I could possibly do to help you. You’ve already decided I’m a rake.”
“I’ve decided that because you are.”
He leaned forward. “What, pray tell, makes a man a rake in your eyes? You must be an expert—after all, you’ve decided that I am one.”
“Among other things, having strange women come to your house and try and bilk you out of your fortune.”
Michael sighed. This morning had been an admittedly unfortunate incident that didn’t help his case where Claire was concerned. He would have to speak with his butler—that charlatan Miss Thompson should never have made it through the door.
“Well then, what can the greatest rake in all of England offer you?” He swept a mocking bow from his seated position in his chair.
Claire pursed her lips as if she didn’t appreciate his tone. Then again, she’d come to his house apparently with the express intent of insulting him to his face. He didn’t rightly care if she liked his tone or not.
“I want you to help me identify the rakes in society so that I may avoid them. When a man begins to court me, I wish for you to help me know whether he’s appropriate.”
“Appropriate how?” His eyes narrowed. “Surely you are privy to more gossip than I am.”
“Not the kind that matters,” she said staunchly. “Not the kind that would prevent what happened with my brother Richard from happening to me again.”
Her lips slammed shut as if she hadn’t wanted to reveal what she’d just said. He warmed with compassion—he knew better than most what she’d experienced because of her eldest brother’s careless disregard, from his squandering of the family’s fortune.
Michael was careful not to show his emotions. Claire had an excessive amount of pride, and his sympathy wouldn’t be appreciated.
“Another thing.” She straightened her back and gave him the full force of her glare.
He knew her well enough to know that she was gathering her courage. He’d seen that precise expression on her face when she was perhaps twelve years old and planning to steal a cherry tart from Cook’s cooling board.
“I want…”
He arched an eyebrow, waiting. It must be something interesting indeed if she was finding it difficult to say the words.