Chapter 10 - Claire
“You truly mean to pull over?” Claire stammered.
Michael steered the carriage to the side of the path and pulled the reins. “Why not? Your Tweeds have stopped on that little hill. Probably got hungry—look at all that fresh green grass!”
Claire tsked at him. He grinned and his red-blond hair flopped over his forehead in that careless arrangement she couldn’t help but find attractive.
“What reason will you give for us intruding upon their outing?” she asked.
“Reason?” He exhaled derision in a great gust. “They’ll be so pleased that a beautiful lady deigned to speak with them that they won’t require a reason.”
“I’ve just been crying—no doubt my complexion is blotched.”
“You’re luminous and your skin is flawless as usual. Stop grasping for excuses. Do you want to snag a Tweed or not?”
Claire did her utmost not to fiddle with her reticule or nibble at the inside of her cheek—both bad habits and tell-tale signs that she was discomfited. Michael was right—if she wanted to achieve her goal of marriage, she’d have to make an effort to speak with gentlemen. Presumably several of them.
She took a deep breath and straightened her spine. She could do this. There was no possible way that a genteel outing in the park could come close to the rude cacophony of an early-morning London market. She’d survived many of those; she certainly could handle this with aplomb.
“Very well,” she said.
Claire allowed Michael to help her from the elegant phaeton, keeping her head at precisely the right height—just high enough to exude the confidence she didn’t feel, but not so high that it looked as if she thought herself better than the group of gentlemen they approached.
She was aware of her maid hovering at the customary distance to provide excellent chaperonage, and she was grateful.
“Hullo, Lord Hart,” Michael said, nodding his greeting.
The man closest to them turned with a smile.
He wore a crisp tan suit that had been ironed to perfection—each pant leg sported a deep crease precisely at the midpoint.
The rest of him was impeccable, too—his light brown and grey hair carefully combed and the very tip of a clean handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket.
“Rutheridge,” Lord Hart said. “What brings you to the park this fine day?”
“The most pleasant of reasons.” Michael turned to Claire and smiled down at her so warmly she fought the urge to blush. “Miss Preston agreed to join me for a ride in my new phaeton.”
Several other gentlemen joined their grouping, each of them giving Claire a head-to-toe evaluation that was just a little too frank. Perhaps Michael was right and they would be grateful for her presence, for none of them had enough experience to be sly about their appraisal.
“I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to your friends, Lord Hart,” Michael was saying in that easy, affable way of his.
“Of course, Lord Rutheridge, Miss Preston, may I present…”
There were four of them besides Lord Hart, and Claire did her introductory duties with each in turn, nodding her head and giving a benign, pleased sort of smile—the same one she used when a footman placed an unknown dish before her at a dinner party.
Three of the other gentlemen were lords as well, which spoke well of the group as a whole.
Lord Lane was blond, tall, and thin. With his height, and in his cream-colored suit, he gave Claire the impression of a spindly plant who’d been shaded out and was stretching desperately to reach the sunshine.
Then there was Lord Partridge and Lord Saunders—though seemingly unrelated, they were difficult to tell apart at first glance.
They threatened to congeal in her mind due to their bland similarity.
They both wore brown tweed suits, both had unremarkable brown hair, and like Lord Lane, both lacked any semblance of a tan to improve their unremarkable features.
Only Lord Saunders had a slight bump to his nose that allowed her to distinguish him—a hook on which to hang her mental remembrance.
For several moments, the beginning pleasantries were exchanged, that dull introduction to every conversation.
Just like every author’s note at the beginning of a book, Claire longed to skim through it as quickly as possible in order to get to more interesting things.
Michael smiled down at her as if he could read her impatience in the slight shifting of her person.
“How do you find the weather, Miss Preston?” Lord Saunders finally asked.
In terms of opening parries, it was a slow one, easily batted away, but entirely acceptable.
Claire gave a warm smile. “It’s a lovely day for a carriage ride, especially when the company is excellent. May I ask what pursuit brings you gentlemen to the park?”
“We’re taking a walk,” Lord Partridge interjected.
Lord Saunders frowned at him, as if he believed Claire’s question was meant for him alone and Lord Partridge was interrupting rudely. Perhaps since he’d mustered the courage to address her first, he thought he ought to have several moments of her undivided attention.
“It’s a lovely day for walking as well.” She inclined her head graciously to each of them in turn.
“Am I mistaken, Lord Hart, or have you just returned from Ba-ath?” Michael said.
Claire blinked. Something about the way Michael had pronounced “Bath” struck her as odd, but she couldn’t ascertain why. She refocused and caught the tail end of the conversation—just in time, too.
“Have you ever visited Bath, Miss Preston?” Lord Saunders asked. When he smiled as engagingly as he did now, Claire thought the bump on his nose was barely noticeable.
“I haven’t had the opportunity, but I should dearly love to visit someday.”
“Mother says it’s excellent for one’s health,” Lord Lane said with all the gravitas of one handing down a royal decree. “And our physician agrees with her.”
As if his mother was the first one to have deduced as much, Claire thought. “Many educated persons say the same, or so I’ve heard.”
Michael grinned. “But have you noticed that physicians only encourage Ba-ath for specific periods of time? It’s always, ‘Ba-ath for six weeks, or two months.’ If it’s so healthy, it’s a wonder they don’t recommend a permanent relocation.”
Again, every time Michael said “Bath,” Claire had to resist the urge to narrow her eyes.
He seemed to trip over the syllable just a half-second too long, so that the “a” sound in the word was drawn out nearly imperceptibly.
She pressed her lips together instead of frowning.
Claire knew Michael well enough to know he must have been doing it on purpose… but why?
“Whatever do you mean, Rutheridge?” Lord Hart asked.
“If Ba-ath were so healthy, and if physicians truly cared about the health of their patients above all else, there would be a stampede to move there, as doctors round the country prescribed it. However, it’s a rare physician who would send all of his patients away indefinitely—that would be counterproductive to making a living, you see. ”
Lord Lane frowned as if Michael had just denigrated the entire profession and the man’s mother, besides.
Claire gave a little jerk at Michael’s words—not because she found them shocking, as she didn’t have a metaphorical horse in this particular conversational race—but because she’d just figured out what Michael was playing at when he said “Bath.”
Michael had referred to Tweeds as being sheep only minutes ago. Now, when he spoke to these men, every time he came to that particular “a” sound, he was drawing it out. “Bath” became “Baaahth,” “can” became “caaahn,” and so forth. He was baaa-ing in these gentleman’s faces, and they had no idea!
Though she found his clever put-down dreadfully—and regretfully—funny, Claire couldn’t burst out laughing as she might have done were they alone. Instead, she clamped down on the sudden urge, making a tiny strangled noise instead.
Michael turned to her, grinning like he’d won something. “I daresay, Claire. Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she said, her voice wavering with her suppressed laughter.
Michael waggled his eyebrows, his smile growing wider. “Are you sure you aren’t in need of a trip to Ba-ath?”
She regained control and said primly, “Not at all. Pardon me—I thought I saw a bee.”
“A bee?” Lord Lane nearly shrieked, whipping around to look. “I knew we shouldn’t have dallied next to these flowers. Didn’t I tell you as much when we stopped, Partridge?”
Lord Saunders rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome to go on ahead.”
“If it helps, I was mistaken,” Claire added.
“It hardly matters,” Lord Lane snapped. “There very well might be bees, and now that the matter’s been brought up, I cannot help but think of it.”
Claire nodded politely, even as she crossed Lord Lane off her list. She couldn’t abide a husband as high-strung as he was. What if the house caught fire? He couldn’t be depended upon to help save the children, that was for certain.
Even as she had the thought, the gentleman turned toward her with a frown. “It doesn’t help that you’re wearing a bright gown. Everyone knows that vivid colors attract bees.”
Claire blinked down at her subdued grey-green striped dress. She might have attempted a response once she recovered from the momentary surprise at the accusation, but it turned out there was no need.
“Miss Preston’s gown is lovely,” Michael said, an icy coolness to his tone. “And there are no bees. Even still, Lord Lane, I’d heartily encourage you to walk ahead as your friend suggested.”
Michael’s tone implied that great calamity would befall the man if he didn’t follow the instructions. Lord Lane’s head reared back; a puzzled frown lodged itself firmly upon his features. He gave a brusque nod, turned, and left.
“Our apologies, Miss Preston,” Lord Hart said. “Lord Lane can be an acquired taste. I hope you don’t believe his manners to be indicative of ours.”
“Not at all,” Claire said, offering them each a smile. “I would have been concerned about bees myself.”
“Yes,” Michael added. “They’re hardly a la-aughing ma-atter.”
Claire pursed her lips to contain their quaver at his ever-so-faint bleating. It was just like Michael to bring her from nerves to laughter in mere moments. And to do it in such a subtle way that none of the other gentlemen knew they were being mocked…it was nearly too much for her to bear.
As the conversation meandered on, brushing against many subjects, Claire did her best to constrain her smile to something demure and polite, even as she was distracted by Michael’s understated baaing sounds.
Thankfully, the gentlemen didn’t seem to notice anything. Lord Saunders and Lord Partridge smiled her way often, and Claire answered the few questions directed at her as well as she was able, given the circumstances.
“Well, gentlemen,” Michael finally said. “I fear we must aba-andon you to your own pursuits. Thank you for allowing us to intrude.”
“Not at all,” Lord Saunders said, his eyes on Claire’s. “It was our pleasure. Miss Preston, I trust you’ll be attending the Stewarts’ ball next Friday?”
“Indeed.”
“Then I beg you save a dance for me.”
She nodded demurely. “How very kind. Certainly.”
“Except you will have to wait in line behind me,” Michael teased with a grin. “And if there are no da-ances left by the time you a-ask, that will just be too ba-ad.”
Claire allowed herself to be led back to the carriage, but couldn’t help but give Michael a sharp pinch upon his arm as they walked.
“Ow.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Perhaps there are bees in the park, after all.”