Page 29 of The Trouble with Tweed

“If she cares for him, then none of them are true competition.”

“I’m not sure. Dahlia made her intent to marry known right after my brother offended her.”

A slow smile stole over Michael’s face. “Then she must have cared for him, otherwise she wouldn’t have had such a pointed response.”

Michael had a point, but Claire hardly wanted to admit it to him. “I don’t think that Dahlia Warrington is the type of lady who overlooks an insult, especially when it was given directly to her face.”

“That’s a story I’m keen to hear, but it must wait until tomorrow, as we are currently dancing too close to others for you to relay it with any hope of confidence. Besides, it looks as if he’s gotten into the spirit of things now.”

Claire chuckled. “It will be good to see him on a merry little chase, but I fear that’s all that’s waiting for him there.”

Michael gave a thoughtful hum but didn’t agree with her, which made her think that he thought otherwise.

“Beatrice is dancing too,” he murmured.

He turned her so that she could see past his large frame to where Beatrice was dancing with a slim, sallow-looking man who held her as far away as the spindly length of his arms allowed.

“You’d better warn your sisters off of your suitors,” he murmured. “It looks like Beatrice has gone after one of your Tweeds.”

Claire pinched him on the shoulder and he chuckled lowly. “Perhaps even one flute of champagne was too much, if you insist on groping me in public.”

“That was not a grope,” she insisted, fighting the flush in her cheeks.

“If that wasn’t a grope, I can hardly wait to discover what is.”

She pressed her lips together in lieu of rolling her eyes. Time had passed quickly, as it seemed to do when she was with Michael, and soon the dance was ending.

“May I have another?” he asked.

“Three would signal that you’re well past courting and have decided to marry me. I want the other men to be interested, remember?”

“How could I possibly forget?” he muttered. The next moment, he turned to her with a smooth smile. “May I have another?”

Claire shook her head, smiling despite herself, and went to go find her sisters.

CHAPTER 8- MICHAEL

The following morning, Michael arrived at Claire’s street at the start of visiting hours. He’d thought he would have been the most eager caller to arrive, but as he strode for the house with bouquet in hand, another man was already being ushered in the front door by the butler.

Michael frowned and increased his pace on the off chance that the gentleman was there to visit Claire. He racked his brain to think of who it might be. Claire had managed a full dance card at the end, and she’d arrived back at his side, flushed from her last dance and her success, and said, “With any luck, at this rate, I won’t require your assistance for very long.”

Several of the gentlemen had been exactly the type that Claire was looking for: steady, wealthy, and altogether boring. In fact, Lord Pinkley had even upped the ante with his receding hairline.

In Michael’s mind, Pinkley was who he was up against. For any other young lady, there would have been no competition between the two men, Michael assured himself as he smoothed his own full head of reddish-blond hair. But Claire was most concerned with her security, and she might like the idea of a husband without any hair at all—such a man was unlikely to acquire a mistress on the side.

When the butler let him in the front door and then to the parlor, Michael was relieved to see that the visitor wasn’t for Claire at all. Instead, it was a large, dark-haired man he recognized as the Duke of Ettrick.

The Scottish lord sat next to Margaret, his eyes as keen upon her as a bird of prey’s. Margaret didn’t seem happy with his focused attention. She blushed furiously and looked down at her tangled fingers.

Claire rose to greet Michael, and he pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. He was encouraged by the two high spots of color on her cheeks. Perhaps she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she acted.

“I hope that you slept well, Claire.”

“Indeed, the activity of the evening ensured it. And yourself?” She gestured toward the sofa, and he sat after she’d regained her seat.

He nodded. “Although you perhaps danced more than I did last night.”

“It’s true, I barely had enough time to sneak a glass of punch toward the end of the evening.”