Page 22 of The Trouble with Tweed

There was no getting around it, however—Lily’s frame was objectively nice. So nice, in fact, that Michael had overheard a grouping of young men chuckling lowly about it at the gambling hall only last week. (He had frowned severely at them until they stopped, then cleaned them out in Vingt-et-Un as punishment.)

But Michael personally thought Claire was twice as stunning. Not so obviously curvaceous, perhaps, but her thin frame was perfectly proportioned to the rest of her. It was like the time he’d gone to see an exhibition at the Academy with what felt like the rest of all the British peerage.

While the rest of the ton audibly exhaled their amazement at the luminous seascapes, craning their necks to get a better view amongst the crowd, Michael had found himself bored and wandered off into another room, only to be transfixed by a small painting of the English countryside. The brush strokes were so flawless, so delicate, that he’d stood there alone for an hour, just marvelling. He’d gone home quite pleased with himself for noticing what everyone else had failed to see.

Michael felt much the same about Lily and Claire—while the rest of the gentlemen were elbowing each other in the gut trying to get a better view of Lily, he’d be twice as happy in a room alone with Claire—just marvelling.

Michael internally shook his head and attended to the subject at hand. “Are you afraid that Lily might be taken in by a particular scoundrel because she’s too kind? Who were you going to mention?”

“I can’t think of an appropriate man at the moment, but you get my meaning.”

“Don’t you mean an inappropriate man?” He waggled his eyebrows; Claire gave a long-suffering sigh that made him smile. “I will keep an eye out for her. For all of you,” he quickly added.

“I certainly don’t need protection from fortune hunters,” she scoffed. “I have a plan, remember?”

As do I, Michael thought. His plan was simple—to find the most boring men in all of London and point them in her direction until Claire realized it was him alone she wanted as husband.

He said, “I believe it’s our plan now, as you’ve made me integral to the point.”

Claire barely escaped rolling her eyes that time; she pretended to examine the ceiling. Michael had to press his lips together tightly to hide his smile. He thought she must have seen a whisper of it on his face despite his efforts, as her green eyes hinted at a scowl.

“Very well,” she said. “Speaking of our plan, have you considered any gentlemen that might fit my parameters?”

“I have several in mind.” It wasn’t a lie—he’d already started crafting a list of the most eye-wateringly tedious men in all of England.

“Do tell,” she said crisply.

Michael’s expression was carefully guileless when he said, “Have you been introduced to Lord Lawrence?”

Claire leaned back, a slight wince on her face. “Yes, but⁠—”

Michael pretended not to notice her disgust. “He’s made no secret he’s in the market for a wife.”

“I’m not sure he’s the best fit.”

He frowned. “He’s wealthy, titled, and available. Plus, he’d propose tomorrow if you earned his mother’s approval.”

“I’d hoped for a marriage partnership a bit more…equal.”

Michael couldn’t help it; he laughed—a great, rolling laugh that had many heads turning their direction. “Oh, sweet Claire—you aren’t going to find your equal amongst a bunch of Tweeds.”

She frowned. “Whyever not?”

“You’re lively and engaging. That’s the opposite of a Tweed.”

“We needn’t be equals socially, as long as we share other important values,” she said stubbornly.

He arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Fiscal prudence, dedication to family…” She trailed off.

Michael sipped his tea in order to distract himself from the sight of her biting her lip. Then he said, “You do realize this isn’t going to work.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“You getting a Tweed to marry you.”

“Why is that?”