Page 5 of The Trouble with Tweed

Claire wrinkled her nose as if he was being purposefully stupid. “I’ve not yet chosen him.”

That was a different thing altogether. If she was not yet engaged, then perhaps there was still… He shook his head, trying to chase the pointless hope away.

“Which brings me back to my original point. Why are you here?” He arched his eyebrow. “Or perhaps I’m the lucky man?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Two spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. He knew her too well to delude himself into thinking it was a blush at his words. More likely it was anger.

“Well, if you haven’t come to propose, then…”

“As you and I both know—and apparently all of Cheapside as well,” she said with a tilt of her head toward the door where the young woman had just exited, “you are a rake.” Claire said the word with all the gravitas of a judge pronouncing a death sentence.

“If you say so.” He swigged the rest of his tea.

There had been a time years ago when he’d displayed some overly indulgent tendencies. Granted, he was quite a bit younger and had just come into his inheritance. It was a rollicking, rowdy six months full of boisterous highs and more than a few regretful mornings. But he’d never extended such behavior towards the female set, and he hadn’t sunk into such a furrow of behavior that one could reasonably call him a rake.

Yet in true Claire fashion, she’d extrapolated that his—quite normal, by all accounts—behavior meant that he was a libertine of the highest order. It was a poor comfort to him that lately she was prickly with everyone.

Claire nodded as if they’d come to some sort of agreement on the matter. “I’ve decided that a rake is the last kind of man I would ever want to marry.”

Michael sighed, longing to flop his head back upon the chair. On one hand, he was grateful that she was here speaking to him as forthrightly as she once had, as if they were still friends. On the other, she’d just barged into his house, witnessed possibly one of the most embarrassing moments of his life, declared him a rake, and then proclaimed that he was the last man she’d ever want to marry.

It was no wonder he’d always thought of her as a sort of winter storm—beautiful and tempestuous and liable to freeze a man to the core if he wasn’t prepared to weather it.

“Wonderful. I’m thrilled to hear it. May I please go?”

Claire blinked as if surprised by the acrimony in his voice, as if it were a shock that she’d offended him.

When several moments passed in silence, he prompted, “What did you need?”

When she looked up, she looked more confused than angry. “I need your help.”

“With what?”

“You know as well as I do that there will be rumors as to where my sisters and I have been. Rumors as to why I had the one Season and then disappeared.”

He nodded. There already were rumors. He’d heard some outlandish ones—that Claire had been married and widowed already…that she and her sister Lily had traveled to America, found wealthy husbands, and murdered them…that they’d gone to France to become dancers…that one of them had married a Maharaja in India and stolen all of his gold…

“You should know better than to listen to rumors. I do.” He arched his eyebrow as if to drive home his point. “If you don’t like the untrue rumors being spread about you, perhaps you shouldn’t listen to the untrue rumors about me.”

She frowned.

Michael knew she wouldn’t see it that way. Claire was a force of nature. She was a winter storm, yes; he also thought she was like a glacier—something cold and unmovable. Once she was frozen, there was no hope of her thawing again. At least, that had been his experience.

When she didn’t reply, he sighed and said, “I don’t understand what I could possibly do to help you. You’ve already decided I’m a rake.”

“I’ve decided that because you are.”

He leaned forward. “What, pray tell, makes a man a rake in your eyes? You must be an expert—after all, you’ve decided that I am one.”

“Among other things, having strange women come to your house and try and bilk you out of your fortune.”

Michael sighed. This morning had been an admittedly unfortunate incident that didn’t help his case where Claire was concerned. He would have to speak with his butler—that charlatan Miss Thompson should never have made it through the door.

“Well then, what can the greatest rake in all of England offer you?” He swept a mocking bow from his seated position in his chair.

Claire pursed her lips as if she didn’t appreciate his tone. Then again, she’d come to his house apparently with the express intent of insulting him to his face. He didn’t rightly care if she liked his tone or not.