Page 43 of The Trouble with Tweed

Her cheeks grew hot. It was an unspoken agreement between them that she’d just broken, not to ask about the other ladies in his life.

He shrugged and pushed the brass duck more accurately back into place with his forefinger. “I’m teaching Lord Austin how to fence, and sometimes I’ll breakfast at the Black Raven. Other than that, I’m mainly at my ledgers or with you as of late.”

Claire frowned even though his answer pleased her. What had she expected, that he’d be honest with her about his exploits with the feminine set? And there were exploits—she knew there were.

She shook the thought from her head and unthinkingly asked, “And what of when you marry? What if your wife doesn’t want to share her home with your mother and sister?”

Claire was surprised by the sudden sharp twist in her stomach. The previous two questions were self-flaggelation, though she was careful not to let the truth of it show.

He frowned as if considering. “I suppose I shall have to choose wisely when I marry. I think that my mother is gracious enough to concede the running of the household to my wife when the time comes. If my sister marries a gentleman of quality—which she should—I suppose my mother might split her time between her four children. Or perhaps she will make her home at one of the country residences.”

Claire swallowed back the sourness in her throat and gave a wan smile. “Your wife could hardly do better for a mother-by-law.”

Michael hummed, his eye on the biscuits once more.

“Heaven’s sake, Michael,” she said. “Didn’t you have luncheon?”

“What an interesting way of inviting me to lunch, Claire. It’s a bit late for it today, but I shall come by promptly tomorrow.”

Claire shook her head, her cheeks warming at his affectionate impudence. “You’re insufferable.”

“Now that you’ve brought up the maternal set, I must mention that it’s fascinating how often Tweeds talk about their mothers.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Truly. One wonders if the gentleman would have become Tweeds at all without the mothers they have?”

“This is why I adore you, Claire. I came for tea and biscuits and now I’m being treated to deep philosophical questions. Which came first: the overbearing mother or the Tweed?”

CHAPTER 13- CLAIRE

Lord and Lady Perkins were not the flashiest of the ton, but their family name was old and the London manor they inhabited was exceedingly grand. Claire wasn’t surprised, then, that their large ballroom was nearly filled by the time she and her siblings made their fashionably late entrance that Friday night.

Claire felt exceptionally pretty in a deep-blue-green silk-satin gown. The square neck was edged in tightly pleated ribbon in the same shade, and the sleeves had just a hint of a puff. It was a deviation from the more severe cut of gown she typically favored. Mara had curled Claire’s hair into soft, romantic curls before pinning it loosely with several small peacock feathers and topped off the ensemble with dangling sapphire earrings.

Claire had barely scanned the room—looking for Michael, if she were being honest—when a man appeared suddenly at her elbow.

“May I have this dance, Miss Preston?” he asked.

In reflex, she frowned at him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Though they hadn’t, in fact, been introduced, she recognized the gentleman. Lord Nelson was popular with the female set. He had blond hair and blue eyes and was the smooth kind of good-looking that Claire instinctively never trusted.

Even as a lady, Claire found it nigh on impossible to keep her person flawless. Yet every time she saw Lord Nelson, he was impeccable, his hair perfectly in order with not even a strand out of place. Perhaps it was the combination of his pomade and his smarmy smile that made him appear as some sort of caricature, as if a cartoonist had been instructed to draw a very good-looking man.

Tonight was the same as always—his appearance was immaculate. Even his terrible eggplant waistcoat had been ironed to a mirror-like perfection.

He caught her fingertips and bowed over them. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Nelson.”

Claire withdrew her fingers as quickly as possible without yanking them from his slightly too-firm grasp. “This is highly irregular.”

A marionette—that’s what he reminds me of, Claire thought. With his dead eyes and perfect smile, Lord Nelson looked like one of those creepy dolls that were made to speak and dance on stage.

“But don’t you agree that some of the best things in life are just slightly improper?” He grinned at her, standing a little too close.

Claire was aware of many eyes upon them. It simply wouldn’t do. Lord Nelson had left numerous heartbroken young ladies in his wake. When it came to rakes, there was none as established or prolific as he. Claire thought the only reason he was forgiven for his exploits was because of his title and how well respected his father had been.

Of course, such things were always blamed on the young ladies, not the gentlemen. Society had placed the burden of propriety squarely on young ladies’ shoulders. It was hardly fair, Claire thought. After all, the young ladies weren’t warned of what a rake truly was—at least, not in clear enough language to understand the true danger. Ladies were so often told what not to do, but not any of the reasons why.

If a rumor started about her and Lord Nelson, no Tweed within a hundred miles would call upon her. Claire took a pointed sidestep away from Lord Nelson. His smile remained firmly affixed, but something in his eyes went sharp.