Page 18 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Well, of course not, but⁠—”

“I think that might be a problem,” he interrupted. “I’m not sure you can be convincing enough to prop up our act. Forgive me for saying so, but am I correct in assuming that you’ve never been seriously courted before? Other than by me, of course?”

She lifted her chin. “I have not.”

It wasn’t an embarrassment to admit as much—not when the only men who’d visited her home after her first Season had been bill collectors. She hardly was going to run off and marry one of them—they had all the social graces of a wounded bear.

“Have you ever been in love?” Michael stopped stock-still in the center of the path and stared down at her as if her answer were the most important thing in the world. His blue eyes fixed upon her intently.

“Well, no,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing, “but I’ve seen it play out enough that I daresay I can be convincing.”

“Very well.” He was apparently satisfied with her answer well enough to start walking again.

After a few moments of their footsteps crunching in gravel, she added, “Besides, we don’t have to feign love.” She said the word with so much disdain it nearly dripped from the syllable.

He tilted his head. “Does love hold no interest for you, then?”

“Of course it does, within the right parameters,” she huffed. “If one loves the right man, being in love is certainly a preferable state to not being in love. However, loving the wrong man is far, far worse than not being in love at all.”

“True.” He conceded her point with a dip of his chin. “But as you say, being in love with the right man is the pinnacle.”

“What’s your point?”

Claire was getting impatient. They were halfway down the path and she’d had no time to present her ideas, opinions, or her schedule—none of it. Instead, Michael had hijacked the conversation; she was just holding on for the ride.

“Well then,” he said with all the patience of a math tutor who was trying to teach his pupil to see what two plus two was, “we should pretend that we are in love, or at least on the very cusp of it.”

“I want more suitors, not fewer. If the men believe I’m in love, they’ll give up.”

“On the contrary.” Michael held up a finger. “There’s no greater challenge than a woman in love, and nothing more radiant. If you appear to be in love with me, you will be even more devastatingly beautiful than you already are.”

There was a pause during which Claire might have said something, but she was too flummoxed by the compliment to take advantage of it.

He continued, “The gentlemen will all wonder what they missed. The ladies will all be jealous of your success. Though you may argue that holds very little interest for you, you needn’t lie. Remember, my two eldest sisters are already married. I’m well aware of the games that ladies play, of all the little social currents in a ballroom. If your peers are going to talk about you behind your back—which they will—wouldn’t you rather it be because of your grand love affair with yours truly, rather than all the other little jagged things they could whisper?”

Claire chewed her lip. He was right. There was gossip already, much of it a little too close to the truth for Claire’s comfort.

“Very well. What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll start courting you now in earnest. By the time the first ball arrives, every gentleman who’s interested in you will feel as if he has much catching up to do. It will accelerate your plan.”

Claire considered this, then nodded. It made sense to her, and she did like it—the idea of the ton speaking about her romance with Michael rather than turning their attention to Lily. Or the other things they might find out. The memory of a stifling broom closet rose in her mind and threatened to sicken her before she shook it away.

“Fine,” she said, her words coming out all in a gust. “You may come to the house tomorrow.”

“It would be better if we meet in public,” he said. “McCarthy’s Tearoom, eleven o’clock.”

“That isn’t the fashionable time.”

“I’m well aware, but I happen to have it on excellent authority that eleven o’clock is when several older married couples take tea there.”

Claire scrunched her nose, reluctant to admit the genius of the idea. It would not only signal that she and Michael were further along in their courtship, but it would give the mature set of women fresh gossip to pass along. They were so often deprived of the pleasure of sharing news that the rumor was sure to be spread far and wide.

“Very well, eleven o’clock.” She turned to head back toward her sisters.

Michael tightened his elbow, resting his hand upon hers. “As I said, much of this charade will depend on your ability to sell it. At least allow me to walk you back to your family.”

“Fine.”