To Charm a Naughty Countess Read Free Page A

Lady Applewood,” he blurted, remembering to bow over her hand. “Please excuse me.”
    Twisting aside to avoid the woman’s farewell swat upon the forearm, he threaded through the crowd in the direction of the terrace. Dandies and matrons and maidens drew away from him as he passed, whispering, their wide eyes searching his own for wildness. Looking over his form for evidence of a crooked back, no doubt, or inspecting his hands for the roughness of shocking labor.
    His arms were painfully tense from shoulder to fingertips. He hadn’t expected the rumors to take root so deeply, to outweigh the lure of his title. Nor had he predicted that the only woman to look on him kindly would do so for his damned father’s sake.
    At last, he reached the edge of the high-ceilinged ballroom. Making fists of his aching hands, he pushed open a French door and stepped onto the terrace.
    He drew a deep breath through his nose, expecting clean, cool night air to clear the pounding from his head. But London air did not bite and wake him with its crispness, as did the air on the Lancashire moors. Even in this freakish, chill summer, the air hung heavy and oily with coal smoke. It coated Michael’s lungs and further fogged his head. It reminded him how far he was from where he ought to be.
    Still, the quiet was welcome. And the cheerful marchioness had gone to great effort to make the outside of her London mansion as welcoming as most people found the inside. Hanging lanterns warmed the sweep of stone with mottled light, their glass painted with red and gold scrollwork.
    As he should have guessed, the effect was irresistible to couples in search of seclusion. His eyes adjusting from the dazzling ballroom to the starlit sky, he could see several shadowy blobs, each the shape of two bodies pressed tightly together. As silently as he could, he crossed the stone terrace and sank onto a bench away from the sight of would-be lovers.
    Another deep breath, and the headache began to loosen its grip. A few more minutes of silence and it would slink away. Then he would decide what to do next.
    But the silence ended almost at once. “No, Stratton. I will not allow it.”
    A woman’s voice rang out, cool and formal, much louder than the murmurs of lovers in the twilight.
    A deeper, placating rumble, then the ringing female voice again. “It wouldn’t be proper, Stratton, and you know how concerned I am with propriety.” The voice held a bubble of laughter this time, but it popped abruptly. “Now you must excuse me. I have to return to my friends.”
    Friends. Fortunate lady. Likely she had a dance lined up, and this fool was keeping her from someone whose company she preferred. Michael shut his eyes and wondered how long it would take for an eligible woman to agree to marry him, or even to agree to speak with him. For how long were caricatures posted in the windows of printers’ shops?
    The voice was louder now. “Stratton, this is unwise of you. Remember what I did last time you wouldn’t release me as I asked.”
    A pause. “You mistake the matter if you think I am bluffing.” The sweet tone had gone steely.
    Michael opened his eyes. The woman sounded as though she could take care of herself, but the man was insistent. And no one seemed to hear them except Michael. He squinted back at the bright, whirling ballroom. Indoors was a genteel chaos of music and laughter, heedless of the unfolding drama outside.
    Michael deliberated for an instant. He must not do anything that seemed mad, for God’s sake. But he could not let a woman be menaced.
    He stood and strode forward out of the shadows, allowing his feet to thump on the stone of the terrace. Moving directly under a painted lantern, he leaned on the sturdy balustrade, allowing his presence to become known to the too-persistent man.
    From here, he could overlook the great house’s gardens. They looked tranquil and still, the darkness broken only by the firefly wink of tiny lanterns.
    A hand