Chapter 6 - Michael
The following morning, Michael waited in front of a bustling tearoom.
The crisp white paint of the bricks was set off by black shutters.
Several large pots spilled flowers over their edges onto the cobblestones.
It was a fashionable part of town, and not an unpleasant spot to pass the time—Michael just hoped that Claire wasn’t going to lose her courage and fail to show up.
Just as he frowned down at his watch fob for the third time, a black-lacquered coach as shiny as a beetle pulled to the curb. Michael hurried forward and offered his hand first to Claire’s maid and then to Claire herself as they descended.
Claire shook her head, her lips pinched together. “Apologies for my tardiness. My sisters heard I was going out and demanded to accompany me.”
Michael peered at the carriage behind her.
“Not here. Just into town in general. They’re all at some bookshop near the docks.”
“The docks?” His eyebrows raised. “No wonder you’re late. That’s all the way across the city.”
“Nothing stands between Beatrice and her books. Though I knew they’d make me tardy.” She looked up at him with clear green eyes, and he felt his heart tumble a bit farther down the ravine it had started down all those years ago. “I’m truly sorry, Michael. I detest being late.”
“Not at all.” He tucked her slim hand into the crook of his elbow.
It was a heady thing to feel the flex of her fingers against the fine wool of his coat.
“I wish I had thought of it myself, actually. Me waiting on the street for an hour helps sell the narrative we’re looking to spread—that I’m besotted. ”
Claire shook her head, a smile teasing her lips. “It wasn’t an hour, and you well know it.”
“Very well, it was merely the majority of one. Quick—let’s go in and show all the settled couples how dreadfully happy we are to be in each other’s company.”
Though Michael would have preferred a table near the window, there were few left to choose from.
The waiter seated them at a table in the center of the room.
The surrounding conversation lulled when he held out Claire’s chair with a courtly flourish—Michael had been correct in thinking their attendance together would be noteworthy.
“You look exceptionally beautiful today,” he said.
Michael didn’t even have to pretend to appreciate her appearance. She wore a navy silk-satin day dress edged in a charcoal box-pleated ribbon. The ensemble illuminated the pale perfection of Claire’s skin and accentuated the elegant ratio of her waist and shoulders.
“Thank you. The dress is new.”
“Your brother must have spent a fortune,” he said as he settled into the chair across from her.
Claire’s eyes sparkled. “What a gauche comment. Really, Michael, you shouldn’t say such shocking things, especially when it’s obvious that Lady Commerant is struggling to overhear us.”
“Is she? I’ll speak more clearly, then.”
Michael ordered for them, choosing a tea that he knew Claire favored, as well as an assortment of tea sandwiches and pastries.
“Please ensure there are no chives on the smoked salmon,”’ he added.
“Very good, my lord.” The waiter nodded, took the menu, and departed.
He looked up to find Claire giving him a bemused sort of smile. “What is it?”
“I’m impressed you remember my preferences is all. Not even my own cook remembers to leave off the chives.”
“She’s got eight other people to remember, Claire. For me, there’s only you.”
Forever, he thought, then batted the idea away—she was nowhere near ready for that yet.
“True, though I might be the pickiest in the house.” She huffed a laugh. “There’s a sign that our fortunes have returned, if nothing else.”
“How so?”
“Do you think a truly hungry person cares whether the smoked salmon is sprinkled with chives?” She blushed and took a long time smoothing the cloth napkin over her lap.
“Were you?” he murmured. “Truly hungry?”
“It hardly matters,” she said crisply.
Her brief moment of honesty had flittered away like a frightened bird.
Michael cleared his throat and canted his voice louder. “My mother and Sylvia were quite taken with you, Claire. Mother wants to know when you are available to take tea with her again.”
Claire pressed her lips together as the waiter returned and poured tea into both their cups before leaving the silver pot between them.
Claire’s eyes sparked in amusement as she murmured, “Clever of you.”
He’d not only called Claire by her first name, he’d also mentioned that she’d had tea with his family.
Both were important guideposts along the path of courtship.
Indeed, Claire might be the only one in the room who didn’t feel the significance of such things, as she thought Michael was only faking his attentions.
“Is the tea to your liking?” he asked. “Is it hot enough to pour from the balustrade if we come under siege?”
She laughed. “So dramatic.”
“Says the lady who likes her tea the temperature of Beelzebub’s backside.”
Claire snorted into her cup and covered it with a ladylike cough, her eyes dancing with shocked mirth as she dabbed politely at her lips.
Michael grinned. Claire was so often serious—especially as of late—that he couldn’t help but feel a thrill of accomplishment when he made her laugh.
“Tea?” he finally prompted, speaking a bit louder, when it was clear that Claire wasn’t going to touch his former comment with the proverbial ten-foot pole. “With my mother?”
“I’d be happy to join her whenever she chooses.”
He canted his voice low enough for privacy. “She’ll be delighted to hear it, as am I. I’m thrilled that my family’s antics haven’t scared you off.”
“As if your family could compare to mine when it comes to inappropriate humor. You should hear Margaret go on about all her scandalous encyclopedia discoveries, as of late.”
He arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware that Margaret was studious.”
“She isn’t. It’s the influence of Miss Rachel Warrington.”
“The sister-by-law to the Marquess of Salisbury?”
“One and the same.”
“What does she have to do with Margaret’s newfound joy of reading?”
“She and my sister are friends, apparently.” The emphasis she placed on the word told how little she valued such a thing.
Michael hid his smile behind his teacup. Claire had always been the solitary, independent sort. The fact that she’d come to him for assistance with her plan for the Season was a small miracle in itself.
She continued, “Though it isn’t a joy of reading they have in common—it’s a joy of shocking people.”
“I hardly think that the contents of an encyclopedia could be considered shocking.”
“You’d be surprised,” she murmured.
Michael examined the flush of Claire’s cheeks as she sipped her tea. The blush teased his curiosity, but he was acutely aware of all the listening ears around them. Any other time or place, he would have pressed and cajoled an answer from her.
“Still, it could be worse,” he said, instead. “Encyclopedias are much better than those dreadful romance novels my sister favors. You should be glad that Margaret has found such an edifying past time.”
Claire gave a noncommittal hum.
“What of your other sisters? Are they excited to have a Season? It’s nearly upon us.”
“I worry for Lily,” she said, leaning closer and lowering her voice.
Michael knew it was concern for her sister and the desire to keep her words secret that had her leaning forward with such an earnest expression on her face, but to everyone else, it might have looked that she was sharing far sweeter truths.
“Why?”
“She’s—well, surely you’ve noticed how beautiful she is.”
Michael shrugged. He wasn’t such an idiot as to admit he’d noticed any such thing, not to the object of his affection, at least.
“Oh, come now.” Claire scoffed. “She’s stunning, and anyone with two working eyes can see it.”
“She’s pretty enough, but no one outshines you, Claire.”
She pressed her lips together in the way she did when she longed to roll her eyes but was kept from such a satisfying expression by surrounding society.
Michael added, “Surely her beauty can only help her when it comes to having a Season?”
“On the contrary—she’s too sweet, and she doesn’t like attention.”
He winced. Despite his reluctance to say so to Claire, Lily Preston was gorgeous. She would have caused a stampede of bachelors even without the enormous dowry she now possessed.
“That might be a problem,” he admitted.
“You don’t have to tell me that. Besides, Lily is of such a wonderful temperament that she thinks the best of everyone. I shudder to think of her marrying the likes of…”
“Me?” he offered.
She flapped her hand distractedly. “Don’t be ridiculous. As far as rakes go, you’re well enough, I suppose.”
“You flatter me, madam.”
Claire tsked him and sipped her steaming tea. Michael took the moment to admire her once more. This new reality was heady to him, that after so much time apart with no explanation, Claire Preston was sitting across from him in a tearoom, sharing casual banter.
She wasn’t as outlandishly lovely as her sister Lily, but Michael thought her beauty far more interesting for it.
Claire didn’t have huge doe eyes—hers were perfectly sized for her slender face—but they were sly and expressive.
Claire could communicate an entire witty conversation with just those green eyes.
And perhaps Lily had more hair than Claire, but it was the same kind—ash brown with a slight curl. Claire would have looked ridiculous if she’d had any more of it—like she was wearing a mop atop her head.
There was no getting around it, however—Lily’s frame was objectively nice.
So nice, in fact, that Michael had overheard a grouping of young men chuckling lowly about it at the gambling hall only last week.
(He had frowned severely at them until they stopped, then cleaned them out in Vingt-et-Un as punishment.)