Page 38 of The Trouble with Tweed

“I think such rumors are overblown.”

Nelson was fiddling with his cravat again; Michael had the sudden urge to slap at the man to get him to stop. Or perhaps a fist to the jaw would suffice.

“I hope to have a front-row seat when you find out they aren’t,” Michael said.

Lord Gresham frowned; Michael thought he could hear the man’s mental wheels grinding together from where he sat. “Are you suggesting that you intend to get Miss Preston to fall in love with you out of sport?” he finally asked.

“You fellows don’t think I can accomplish it?” Nelson challenged, his eyebrows raised.

“Of course not,” Gresham said. “If you were capable of making a woman fall in love with you, you’d be richly settled already.”

Nelson froze and turned to glare at his friend. Lord Gresham frowned as if confused by his anger.

Michael asked, “Lord Nelson, have you ever seen what a cannon ball does to a man?”

He frowned. “No. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason, only that Lord Cavendish has a full set of cannons on each of his ships.”

Nelson snorted in disgust. “Lord Cavendish is little more than a common sailor. I doubt he would begrudge a man his entertainment.”

The suggestion that Nelson would use Claire as entertainment finally broke what remained of Michael’s barely held composure.

He snapped, “Your intellect and reasoning are breathtaking. Meaning it takes my breath away how stupid you are.”

Despite all the occasions that might have invited it, it appeared that no one had insulted Lord Nelson to his face before. His cheeks began to pinken and he sat up stiffly, his eyes flashing.

“You mark my words, Lord Rutheridge,” he snarled. “Before the season is out, I will succeed in getting to know Miss Preston much better.”

Michael suddenly wondered how serious the justice system was when they insisted that dueling must be put to an end. Though he’d previously thought the advice sensible, in that moment he realized how shortsighted it was. What was a man to do with this much incandescent rage if he were not able to call another man out for it?

Michael thought the best course of action was to leave before he started a fistfight inside the Black Raven, so he stood.

Still, he couldn’t help himself from patting Lord Nelson’s shoulder a bit too hard on his way past and saying, “A gentleman would have to be nigh on suicidal to prey upon the Preston ladies, so on second thought, I think perhaps you should try it. I think you’ll be surprised to find out just how much protection the Preston sisters have, and from how many different quarters.”

Michael had long been aware of the Duke of Ettrick’s interest in the conversation. As Lord Nelson’s back was to the duke, he hadn’t seen the murderous glower the duke had levied at him from the moment he’d referred to the Preston ladies as a “collection.”

Michael doubted Nelson would have stopped speaking, even if he had. In Michael’s experience, some men needed to feel the full brunt of their stupidity before the message fully sank in.

By the expression on Ettrick’s face, the duke intended that Lord Nelson feel the brunt of his error in a very literal sense. If the duke had ever looked at Michael in such a fashion, he would have rethought his words immediately. The man was enormously tall, perhaps six and a half feet. He towered over whichever ballroom he stepped into.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Michael said as he strode for the door.

The duke nodded in grim acknowledgement of the greeting, his eyes still focused on Lord Nelson.

CHAPTER 12- CLAIRE

Over the following week, Michael was true to his word, introducing Claire to several gentlemen who fit her parameters exactly. With the proper encouragement and so many gently coaxing smiles that Claire’s cheeks began to hurt by the end of every interaction, some of the men were enticed to call upon her. It had been the most challenging, unforeseen part of her plan—helping Tweeds gain the courage to darken her doorstep.

Claire learned swiftly that it was best to conduct such visitations out of doors whenever possible, as the Preston household had descended into some sort of courtship free-for-all. Her sisters had proved exceptionally popular, and the sheer volume in the front parlor was enough to set some of Claire’s callers on edge. It wasn’t just the crowded conditions that convinced Claire of the need to keep her Tweeds away from her sisters. There was also the added benefit of avoiding their unwanted commentary afterward.

One day, Claire shared an exceedingly boring walk through the park, Mara close on her heels, with a Lord Dunfrey. Lord Dunfrey was perhaps her brother William’s age. Judging by the reports she had heard and by the fine cut of his coat, his estate was more than adequate.

The problem was with Lord Dunfrey himself. Although kind, there was not much cabbage in the cabbage bin, as William would have said. As they walked, he kept up a mostly one-sided, inane conversation about the weather and about his prized horses, which he loved more than any human alive, by Claire’s estimation.

As he rambled, Claire did her best to imagine a life at his side. Though she didn’t expect to love her husband, she’d thought that there might be a modicum of mutual respect, at least.

But when Lord Dunfrey pointed up at a tree and said, “Look at those tiny tomatoes,” all hope for a future together flew out the window.