Page 36 of The Trouble with Tweed

“It hardly matters,” Lord Lane snapped. “There very well might be bees, and now that the matter’s been brought up, I cannot help but think of it.”

Claire nodded politely, even as she crossed Lord Lane off her list. She couldn’t abide a husband as high-strung as he was. What if the house caught fire? He couldn’t be depended upon to help save the children, that was for certain.

Even as she had the thought, the gentleman turned toward her with a frown. “It doesn’t help that you’re wearing a bright gown. Everyone knows that vivid colors attract bees.”

Claire blinked down at her subdued grey-green striped dress. She might have attempted a response once she recovered from the momentary surprise at the accusation, but it turned out there was no need.

“Miss Preston’s gown is lovely,” Michael said, an icy coolness to his tone. “And there are no bees. Even still, Lord Lane, I’d heartily encourage you to walk ahead as your friend suggested.”

Michael’s tone implied that great calamity would befall the man if he didn’t follow the instructions. Lord Lane’s head reared back; a puzzled frown lodged itself firmly upon his features. He gave a brusque nod, turned, and left.

“Our apologies, Miss Preston,” Lord Hart said. “Lord Lane can be an acquired taste. I hope you don’t believe his manners to be indicative of ours.”

“Not at all,” Claire said, offering them each a smile. “I would have been concerned about bees myself.”

“Yes,” Michael added. “They’re hardly a la-aughing ma-atter.”

Claire pursed her lips to contain their quaver at his ever-so-faint bleating. It was just like Michael to bring her from nerves to laughter in mere moments. And to do it in such a subtle way that none of the other gentlemen knew they were being mocked…it was nearly too much for her to bear.

As the conversation meandered on, brushing against many subjects, Claire did her best to constrain her smile to something demure and polite, even as she was distracted by Michael’s understated baaing sounds.

Thankfully, the gentlemen didn’t seem to notice anything. Lord Saunders and Lord Partridge smiled her way often, and Claire answered the few questions directed at her as well as she was able, given the circumstances.

“Well, gentlemen,” Michael finally said. “I fear we must aba-andon you to your own pursuits. Thank you for allowing us to intrude.”

“Not at all,” Lord Saunders said, his eyes on Claire’s. “It was our pleasure. Miss Preston, I trust you’ll be attending the Stewarts’ ball next Friday?”

“Indeed.”

“Then I beg you save a dance for me.”

She nodded demurely. “How very kind. Certainly.”

“Except you will have to wait in line behind me,” Michael teased with a grin. “And if there are no da-ances left by the time you a-ask, that will just be too ba-ad.”

Claire allowed herself to be led back to the carriage, but couldn’t help but give Michael a sharp pinch upon his arm as they walked.

“Ow.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Perhaps there are bees in the park, after all.”

CHAPTER 11- MICHAEL

The following morning, Michael entered the Black Raven and was greeted by the elegant strains of Debussy playing from the grand piano just past the foyer. After his overcoat had been received, the host led him toward the tables to the side of the great room. As it was morning, the gambling hall was discreetly curtained off. It would not be opened until after the evening meal.

The Black Raven was the most prestigious gentlemen’s club in all of London. Though there were many other establishments that might have competed with the club on their variety of entertainment, the Black Raven was one of the only place where a gentleman might be encouraged to go by his wife. The surroundings were clean, comfortable, and elegant, the membership roll tasteful and curated.

Michael nodded at the Duke of Ettrick, who returned the silent greeting in kind. The duke had not yet been served, but Michael didn’t know him well enough to presume that the man wanted company at his breakfast table.

Though in possession of a towering figure that was impossible to ignore, the Scottish duke was otherwise taciturn and solitary. Michael got the impression that the man would have preferred to go unnoticed in general, though his title, wealth, and stature made that impossible.

Besides, Michael and the duke had only recently been introduced, and only because Ettrick was a common fixture in the Preston parlor as of late. The man visited Miss Margaret Preston as often as Michael did Claire—which was to say, daily. He stayed the entirety of visiting hours, planted firmly at Margaret’s side, and glowered at any man who dared stand too close.

Whenever Ettrick looked at Margaret, he wore an expression like a starving man who’d just been presented with a butter-topped steak—a steak that was slightly yet impossibly out of reach. Michael certainly hoped he himself didn’t look at Claire the same way. Except he feared he did, as Ettrick had given him a commiserate sort of nod just the other day.

After Michael was seated comfortably in a leather wingback at a table in one of the alcoves that ringed the room, he placed his order, shook out his newspaper, and relaxed backwards with a contented sigh.

So far, his courtship of Claire was going flawlessly. Of course, she didn’t know that, which was all the better, as she would have promptly put an end to it. However, their friendship was firmly reestablished, and there had been several moments that carefully edged toward something more.

Michael knew he was walking a fine line—he had to pretend to help Claire well enough that she would keep him around, while pretending to only be her friend. Of course they were friends, but his designs were too grand to be contained within the word. Courtship was not for the faint of heart—at least, not when one actually cared for the lady.