Page 28 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Then I shall lead you around the dance floor, staggering and drunk. If you don’t believe I’d do it, you may try it and find out.” His smiling eyes held a taunting dare. “Though getting drunk is hardly the way to attract the Tweed set.”

“Excellent point. Perhaps another punch, then.”

“Indeed.”

Michael led them over to the punch table, greeting several groupings of young men and ladies along the way. With the way they smiled at her, Claire was struck by the momentary idea that if Michael really were courting her, some of them might soon be true friends of hers. Yet none of it was real. It was all too easy for Claire to forget, even though they’d just begun. She had to guard her heart from a lie of her own making.

Michael handed her a crystal cup of punch. It was pink, with a lovely froth at the top that spoke of sorbet. “Do you see any potential victims? Any Tweeds?”

Claire shook her head at the way he insisted on drawing out the vowel of the word. “I thought spotting them was your job.”

“Indeed.” He glanced around far too quickly for his eye to rest on anyone in particular. “Nope, I don’t see any. We’ll simply have to dance awhile longer until they come slinking from their pastures with ears twitching, looking for any sign of danger.”

“You truly are despicable,” she said with little heat. In truth, his antics made her smile.

They finished their punch and moved back to the dance floor.

“Ah, look,” Michael said, nodding to the far corner. “There they are.”

“Who?” Claire asked. She’d become momentarily distracted by the warm press of Michael’s hand on hers again.

“Your Tweeds. They’ve bunched together near the dessert table. Look at them, all clustered for safety. You cannot blame them—it must be instinctual. There might be a predator about, after all. Have you ever noticed that sheep do the exact same thing?”

Claire pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Though entertainment hadn’t been her intent, she had to admit that Michael was a lively guide to the ton.

“Following one another around,” he continued in a low tone. “Tentatively nibbling their refreshments.”

“You’re terrible, Michael.” But Claire couldn’t quite keep the tremor of laughter from her voice.

“Ironic, since Tweed is most often made from wool. I suppose they save a fortune at the tailor’s.”

“Do be serious.”

“Very well,” he said, swirling her so that her back was to the gentlemen he’d previously been mocking. “What shall we discuss?”

“This is our second dance together,” she said, “so it must be our last.”

“This is our first.”

Claire frowned. “How do you figure?”

“The first was not a whole dance, merely a quarter of one or so, so that doesn’t count. This will be our first complete dance, so it counts as one.”

“I don’t think that’s how things work.”

“How would you know? You haven’t been outside long enough to let the sun tan your cheeks, let alone long enough to hear the etiquette surrounding dances.”

“Certainly not that much has changed since I’ve been away.” Even she heard the uncertainty in her voice.

That’s what she’d taken to calling it—being away. For all the ton knew, the Prestons had been away. In Lily’s case, it was an actuality. For the rest of them, it was a practical reality.

“I see your brother has wasted no time.” Michael nodded over to where William was dancing with Dahlia. She looked stunning as William led her around the floor—the purple and gold threading of her gown was lustrous in the candlelight.

Claire shook her head. “I fear that may be over before it begins. My brother is a spectacular form of idiot.”

“How so?” Michael cocked his head.

“He offended the lady before he realized how he felt about her, and she did the sensible thing and left him alone long enough for him to figure it out. But per his signature style, it’s taken him too long, and now look.” She nodded toward the line of gentlemen who had their eyes clamped upon the couple.