To Charm a Naughty Countess Read Free

sentence.
    “Think nothing of it,” he muttered. He quashed the urge to shudder off the close contact, the press of so many bodies. A London ballroom was the best hunting ground for a wealthy wife—if only the women didn’t scatter like partridges whenever he came near.
    This afternoon, he had seen a caricature posted in a printshop window: a wild-eyed hunchback wearing a ducal coronet of gold strawberry leaves. In one hand, the creature held a shovel; in the other, an empty purse. He lunged, slavering, for a lily-pale maiden in court dress.
    Nonsense of the lowest order. Michael had never been the sort to lunge for maidens, and his shoulders were perfectly square. And he hadn’t dug his land’s canals himself—though what would be the harm if he had?
    Great harm, evidently. The scandal rags had done their work, and thoroughly: the women of London were convinced of his madness. They wanted a Lancelot or a Galahad, not an eccentric Merlin.
    A swat stung his forearm. Michael sucked in an impatient breath, the “it’s quite all right” waiting upon his lips.
    “I vow, Wyverne, I wasn’t sure how you’d turn out, given the talk of… well. Well!”
    Someone was actually addressing him. How novel. He looked down at the small, rounded form of his hostess, the Marchioness of Applewood. Once a slender beauty, she had retained her good cheer far better than she had her figure.
    With another swat on his forearm, she beamed up at him. “It’s lovely to see you after all these years, dear Wyverne.”
    “Thank you.” He tried to draw his arm out of her reach. “For the invitation.”
    The middle-aged marchioness dimpled, reaching up to pat his cheek. “Of course! As I was your last hostess when you were in London so long ago, I wanted to be your first hostess this time. Wicked man!”
    Michael flinched—from the unexpected touch or the mention of that long-ago ball. Or both. Despite the world’s whispers, he had never felt truly mad until that single night. After he took Caroline Ward in his arms…
    He crushed that thought as he would a walnut shell. No.
    “You are the absolute image of your father, you are.” Lady Applewood flushed rosy under her face paint, and she spoke low beneath the din in the ballroom. “He was a handsome devil too, and he always did have a tendre for me. Such a flirt! Only do not tell my husband I said that, I beg you. Applewood is such a jealous creature.”
    “Ah.” Any further reply was made unnecessary when her ladyship batted him on the arm yet again.
    “ Such a wicked man!” She beamed at him. “But I knew you’d understand. Now, we ought to find you someone to dance with, shouldn’t we? I would love to stand up with you myself, but—”
    “Applewood is such a jealous creature,” repeated Michael. This earned him another giggle, another bat upon the arm.
    “Precisely! Ah, just like your father.”
    The headache sounded a warning gong in his temples. “I resemble my late father in very little besides appearance,” he ground out. Then stopping himself, he tried to formulate a pleasant smile. “This was much to his dismay.”
    Of all the women in the ton , he would have considered Lady Applewood least likely to extend him an invitation. But perhaps she hoped for another serving of gossip, such as he had given rise to at her ball all those years ago. Or maybe her mummified affection for his departed father led her to look on him kindly. Whatever the reason, he needed every scrap of such goodwill until he found his footing in society.
    The heat of the ballroom pressed upon him all at once: candle flames, wool coats, and hundreds of bodies. A clamor of laughter and chatter in his ears. Perfume, sweet and cloying over the earthy odor of perspiration.
    The headache cracked its figurative knuckles and settled in for a long visit.
    No. He must ward it off. Fresh air, that was what he needed. There was a terrace to one side of the ballroom.
    “I thank you for your hospitality,