Chapter 8 - Michael
The following morning, Michael arrived at Claire’s street at the start of visiting hours. He’d thought he would have been the most eager caller to arrive, but as he strode for the house with bouquet in hand, another man was already being ushered in the front door by the butler.
Michael frowned and increased his pace on the off chance that the gentleman was there to visit Claire.
He racked his brain to think of who it might be.
Claire had managed a full dance card at the end, and she’d arrived back at his side, flushed from her last dance and her success, and said, “With any luck, at this rate, I won’t require your assistance for very long. ”
Several of the gentlemen had been exactly the type that Claire was looking for: steady, wealthy, and altogether boring. In fact, Lord Pinkley had even upped the ante with his receding hairline.
In Michael’s mind, Pinkley was who he was up against. For any other young lady, there would have been no competition between the two men, Michael assured himself as he smoothed his own full head of reddish-blond hair.
But Claire was most concerned with her security, and she might like the idea of a husband without any hair at all—such a man was unlikely to acquire a mistress on the side.
When the butler let him in the front door and then to the parlor, Michael was relieved to see that the visitor wasn’t for Claire at all. Instead, it was a large, dark-haired man he recognized as the Duke of Ettrick.
The Scottish lord sat next to Margaret, his eyes as keen upon her as a bird of prey’s. Margaret didn’t seem happy with his focused attention. She blushed furiously and looked down at her tangled fingers.
Claire rose to greet Michael, and he pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. He was encouraged by the two high spots of color on her cheeks. Perhaps she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she acted.
“I hope that you slept well, Claire.”
“Indeed, the activity of the evening ensured it. And yourself?” She gestured toward the sofa, and he sat after she’d regained her seat.
He nodded. “Although you perhaps danced more than I did last night.”
“It’s true, I barely had enough time to sneak a glass of punch toward the end of the evening.”
Michael remembered—he had been the one to bring it to her.
“What of your sisters?” he asked. “Did they have a nice time as well?”
“Yes, though they all seemed a bit nervous this morning.” She smiled, and something in his chest squeezed in response. She leaned forward and murmured, “I wasn’t nervous at all, as I knew you would be here to see me through whatever happens next. I confess it feels a bit like cheating.”
Michael’s pride enjoyed her words, though he couldn’t help but hope that no other gentlemen would visit her today. Perhaps it was selfish, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted Miss Claire Preston all to himself.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. Soon, the large downstairs parlor looked like the site of a fashionable party, though the ratio of gentlemen to ladies was approximately five to one.
Michael eventually gave up his seat next to Claire.
On the surface, he was gracious. In his heart, he did so quite begrudgingly, though he was grateful to see that many of Claire’s callers were not of the sort she wanted.
Eventually, as the number of gentlemen in the room increased, Michael was shunted off to the side, somehow ending up sitting next to Beatrice on a settee across the room.
“It’s an absolute crush in here,” Michael said. “Apparently your brother’s concerns for a successful Season are quite put to rest. There are so many flowers in the room, a man could be overcome by hay fever.”
“I suppose I should be embarrassed,” Beatrice said with a smile. “None of these gentlemen have come to see me, and the only one sitting next to me keeps staring at my sister.”
It was odd that none of the gentlemen had singled Beatrice out—she was just as pretty as all the others.
Plus, she had a lively wit and bright eyes.
Then again, perhaps all the gentlemen needed to get a good look at Lily before they decided to cast their eyes at another.
As it was, Lily had far more callers surrounding her than all of her sisters combined.
“Apologies, Miss Preston,” Michael said.
She grinned. “You must call me Beatrice, of course. Even if we hadn’t grown up together, my pin money would be firmly placed on the bet that I’ll soon call you brother.”
Michael arched an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Do you gamble often?”
She laughed and dove straight to the point of the matter. “I’m possibly the only one in my family who sees this for what it truly is.”
“And what’s that?”
“You’re courting Claire again,” she said, nearly triumphantly. “Of course, she doesn’t know that yet.”
“You certainly sound confident in your opinion.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “You needn’t lie to me about it; I support you wholeheartedly. Claire was never happier than when you were courting her the first time around.”
Michael dropped his pretense in an instant, leaning forward. “Do you know what happened, then? Why she suddenly changed her mind?”
She shook her head. “There was so much going on back then that by the time any of us noticed, we couldn’t even guess at the cause.”
He nodded his disappointment. If Claire would simply tell him, then perhaps he could apologize.
Beatrice peered up at him. “Do you mean to say that you have no idea, either? I would have thought you knew.”
Michael shook his head. “All I know is that when I left for Paris, things seemed fine. When I returned, she wouldn’t let me through the front door.”
One month—one disastrous month. Michael fervently wished he’d never agreed to accompany his family to France. Then again, they’d gone to attend his eldest sister’s wedding, and there was hardly an excuse for missing that.
That entire Season had been one he’d rather forget.
First that terrible interlude with the Dowager Countess Berkshire, then the interminable trip to Paris where all he’d done was pine for Claire, then returning home after a month that had felt like an eternity to find that Claire wouldn’t so much as write him a note to tell him why she wouldn’t speak to him any longer.
At the beginning, Michael had been convinced that Claire had fallen in love with someone else.
He lingered for weeks in the park across from the Preston house, slouching against an elm well within the tree line to avoid being seen.
He’d noted every man who made it through the front door, but there was no pattern Michael could discern, no lover she was hiding from him.
Then he thought that perhaps Claire thought it was he who’d been unfaithful in some way.
Though they’d only just begun courting, Michael had been very serious—he’d declared his eventual intentions.
But other than that awful five minutes he’d rather forget, his lips had never so much as grazed another’s.
And there was no possible way Claire knew about that—it had happened so quickly, and she’d already left that ball due to a headache.
Besides, Claire had let him visit her three days in a row after that.
Then Michael had left for Paris and it had all deteriorated.
Something had happened while he’d been gone—something that had ruined everything.
He knew for certain it was not him who’d misstepped, so something must have happened to Claire that he didn’t know about—something that had changed everything between them.
“I’ll do my best to investigate,” Beatrice said. “Not that it will be much help. Claire is too private to offer the information, especially if she hasn’t done so already. And she’s far too smart to be tricked into divulging it, but if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”
“I would settle for finding out why she’s convinced I’m a rake.”
“You mean you aren’t?” Beatrice’s forehead wrinkled. “She’s never offered me a reason. She’s simply stated it as firm fact.”
This was hardly helpful information, though Michael felt somewhat cheered by the fact that Beatrice was on his side in the matter.
“I certainly don’t think I’ve earned the distinction.”
Beatrice frowned. “Do you drink to excess?”
He shook his head. “An occasional port after dinner, brandy when I’m congested. No more than any other gentleman, I’d guess.”
“And how many ladies have you made fall in love with you?”
“This month, or would you like the count for the calendar year?” he asked lightly.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes at his teasing.
He huffed a laugh. “My entire life, I’ve only ever courted one lady. Why Claire believes otherwise, I’ve no idea.”
“Neither do I, but there must be some reason.”
He didn’t point out that their conversation had come full circle, the way it often did in his mind. Michael didn’t delude himself into believing that he was brilliant, but he’d done well in his studies and found himself capable of solving most problems if he applied himself.
This mystery with Claire was the one exception.
Beatrice shrugged. “Well, no matter. I might be able to assist in helping you in the meantime. I don’t suppose you know what her favorite flower is?”
“White roses. The ruffly ones that smell nice.” Michael wiggled his fingers in the air distractedly, trying to express the shape of the petals even as he watched a gentleman smile charmingly at Claire.
What was the fellow’s name again? Gilden? Glidden? Gildy?
Beatrice pressed, “Her favorite tea?”
“Anything with oranges in it,” he murmured.
Lord Gildy was telling Claire something that apparently required a great many hand motions.
“Favorite biscuit?”
“Gingerbread.”
Michael smiled and leaned back. Claire had just poorly concealed a yawn behind her gloved hand. Gildy looked rather deflated—Michael doubted he’d return.
“Frosted gingerbread,” Beatrice corrected, though she must have found the victory hollow, for she frowned. “I concede that you have the basics covered, but do you know why she’s so angry with me as of late?”
Michael knew a trap when he smelled one—he had three sisters of his own. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t betray her confidence.”
“Very well.” She nodded, a smug sort of smile upon her face. “You have passed the test. You may consider me firmly on your side. I’ll assist in any way I can.”
Though Michael wasn’t sure what help Beatrice could be, he was still grateful. When it came to wooing Claire, he would take any help he could get.