Page 4 of The Trouble with Tweed

“What’s that, m’lady?”

“That you forget this man’s name and his address. He’s not up for grabs, you see.”

“All right, then.” The young lady accepted the coin from Claire’s gloved fingers. “Lovely doing business, m’lady.”

She bobbed some butchery of a curtsy and hustled to the door. The footmen followed quickly after, as if to make sure she didn’t attempt to shove an expensive vase into her ill-fitting bodice on the way out.

Michael stared after them, his eyes wide.

“Really, Michael,” Claire said, “you should tell your butler to be more careful.”

Michael privately agreed, but at the moment he was too worn out to say as much. He collapsed into an upholstered armchair. A moment later, Claire thrust a teacup in his direction. He accepted it, swigging back the hot substance so quickly he coughed.

“That was delightful, though,” Claire mused. “Much more entertaining than Vauxhall’s. You should have seen your face!”

“I’m thrilled you enjoyed yourself.” He felt wrung out by the exchange. “Claire, what on earth are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, of course.”

“Why?”

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“It is when they’ve refused to talk to you for the past four years.”

She gave a noncommittal hum as if she would neither argue with him nor confirm what he’d said. The truth was their families had once been very close. They had once been very close. They’d grown up together.

Michael thought he’d first fallen in love with Claire Preston when he was approximately ten years old. His childlike infatuation had matured right along with the rest of him, so he’d done the honorable thing and waited until she was presented. Then he’d started courting her.

That apparently had been a disastrous mistake, because abruptly, approximately four years ago, everything had changed. Claire no longer spoke to him. Claire no longer looked at him. If he said something to her in front of others where she was obligated to reply, she gave as short an answer as possible with a benign smile that infuriated him.

Before whatever happened had happened, they’d been in one another’s confidence. They’d joked about people, had shared their unabridged thoughts on a variety of topics. They’d been dear friends. He still did not know what had occurred to change it all—though he had his suspicions.

“I’m supposed to fence Lord Austin in an hour,” he said, though he didn’t rise like he should have, if he were earnest about her exit.

“You always did prefer to fight those who weren’t as skilled as you.”

“It’s not like that.” He shook his head. “I’m teaching him.”

“Teaching him not to bet on his own inferior abilities, no doubt.”

Michael sighed. This was how it was between them now. Claire thought the worst of him, though he couldn’t figure out why.

She shook her head and pressed her thin lips together. “I haven’t come to fight.”

Though it was rude, he blew on his tea while he waited for her to continue.

“You may have heard that my sisters and I are to have a Season.” She placed her teacup perfectly back upon the saucer without a clink.

Michael nodded. “I’d heard that.”

He didn’t want to admit that his stomach had jerked with the news of it. Claire and her sisters hadn’t been seen in London society for nearly four years. He suspected he was one of the only people who knew the true reason behind it.

“And I’ve decided to marry,” she said.

A fist gripped Michael’s heart and squeezed—so she’d already found a husband. It was no wonder. Claire had always been a beauty, and the last four years had honed her into something that was sharply so. She was elegant and regal, and he couldn’t help but wish a calamitous death upon whoever had asked her.

“Congratulations,” he grunted. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”