To Charm a Naughty Countess Read Online Free PDF Page B

Albemarle Street. Feet, hooves, and wheels trekked back and forth before it in a constant clatter and tumult. Bright flowers tumbled and spilled from window boxes, heedless of the unusual snap in the summer weather. The effect was, Michael supposed, convivial and lovely.
    It was entirely wasted on him.
    Oh, not because of scorn for its appearance. His own London seat, Wyverne House, was a drafty, squat structure that resembled a giant snuffbox. But Wyverne House had the advantage of quiet and order. It swallowed noise and drank light. Albemarle Street was overfull of both.
    Michael’s back began to knot as he marched up the steps to her front door. Caroline was a surprise, and surprises often made him tense.
    Not because of her persistent beauty. No, it was her unshakable confidence. Her certainty that he wasn’t mad—yet she offered to help him, as if she recalled their last, disastrous meeting with pity. As if determined to fix something that was broken.
    Michael was used to being the one who fixed; he did not intend to be seen as broken. He had come today to prove her impression wrong.
    But once admitted to the house, Michael found himself blinking amidst a blast of sparkle and color. There was too much . The walls were a vivid blue; the polished brass chandeliers, gilt picture frames, and glossy marble floors winked and shone in the slanted sunlight. From inside the drawing room, Michael could hear a dozen voices raised in babble and laughter.
    Too much—much too much. Yet entirely normal for the ton . Michael gritted his teeth and hoped the expression resembled a smile, then trudged upstairs to the drawing room.
    He eased open the door and saw at once that the room was crammed full of men. A riot of dark wool, glossy boots, nasally voices. And vases, too—bunches of flowers, riotous in their color, covered every surface that wasn’t draped with male callers.
    Too late, Michael realized he should have brought some sort of nosegay with him. But he couldn’t back out and return with flowers; already everyone in the room had swiveled toward the doorway to regard the new arrival. Their expressions held all the suspicion of schoolboys scrutinizing a student who arrived in the middle of term.
    Michael was fairly certain his would-be smile had turned into a grimace. “Good afternoon,” he said.
    At the center of the room sat Caroline, fair and tranquil amidst the sordid jostlings of her callers. “Wyverne!” she called out. “How good of you to come. And I’m glad you remembered what I said about the flowers.”
    “Hmm,” he replied noncommittally, having no idea to what she referred.
    “You aren’t getting tired of flowers, are you?” A young man turned dark, worried eyes to Caroline. “I didn’t know.”
    “Not at all, Bart.” Caroline spoon-fed the youthful swain a bright smile. “I adore daisies. So cheery, aren’t they?”
    She drew a fingertip over a thin, white petal; as the flower bounced back, pollen scattered across her lacquer-topped table. “His Grace has promised me a special bloom that grows only in Lancashire. He brought the seeds with him to London, and if they blossom, I shall have the only coquelicot carnation in the entire City.”
    She dimpled in her delight, and the so-called Bart who had looked pleased about his daisies now appeared crestfallen.
    “Will you, now?” One of a pair of identically dressed dandies raised his brows and shot a cautious look at Michael. His thumb dandled a snuffbox, tracing its enameled top. “I should like to see it once it’s in flower. I hope it will do you justice, Caro.”
    Since he had just been transformed into a botanist, Michael felt as though he ought to contribute something to the conversation. “It will not.”
    His voice rang like a slap through the room, and the dandy—his shirt points starched so high he could hardly turn his head—allowed an amused smile to creep over his features.
    Michael lifted his chin, ignoring the pressure at his