Page 64 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Are you well?” he asked lightly.

“Yes.” She gave a slight shake of her head to clear her mind. “Of course I’ll assist you. Which lady has, er…caught your eye?”

Claire prayed silently that it wasn’t one of her sisters. Even though Michael hadn’t given any of them so much as a second glance when he’d entered, Lily was still the most obvious choice. She was beautiful, and their families shared a connection of friendship that went back many years.

“What about Miss Alice Pennington?” he said.

Claire’s mouth dropped open; she reared back in shock. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am,” he said easily. “Unless you have a charge against her?”

Miss Pennington was the single silliest young lady of Claire’s acquaintance. It was a testament to her ridiculousness that even a dowry as large as hers could not overcome the difficulty in being in her presence for more than a quarter hour.

“Didn’t her last dance partner fake an injury in the middle of a waltz because she couldn’t stop giggling?”

“Ah, Lord Forthswithe.” Michael half smiled, half winced. “He’s having a rough go of it this Season. Everyone knows that his family is nigh on bankrupt and that he has to marry for money. A shame he couldn’t abide Miss Pennington—she has plenty of it.”

“She hee-hawed like a donkey during the entire song. It was so loud, it distracted some of the strings off their music sheets!”

Michael shrugged. “Very well. Not Miss Pennington. What about Miss Elizabeth Rullond?”

Claire frowned at him. “Is there something wrong with the status of your estate?”

“Why, Claire,” he said, a sly smile spreading across his face. “What a gauche question to ask a suitor.”

She ignored the blush that threatened when Michael referred to himself as a suitor. “I cannot think of another reason why the only two young ladies you’ve mentioned so far are both wealthy and intolerable.”

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked lightly. “Miss Rullond doesn’t hee-haw like a donkey.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Because she doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t smile. Or even speak.”

“How would you know? Have you ever tried talking to her?”

“Of course not. Her countenance forbids it.”

“I can think of far worse things than having a taciturn wife. That might be a strong selling point for some gentlemen, actually.”

“I know you well enough to know you’d be miserable living with a mute.”

He shrugged. “She could be quite pretty if she’d do herself up a bit.”

“But she doesn’t. She wears only grey or navy.”

“That’s a very odd criticism, coming from you. You seem to be partial to navy yourself.”

Thankfully, the tea arrived, and Claire was saved the necessity of responding immediately by pouring them each a cup.

“I am partial to navy,” she said, much more calm after her restorative first sip. “I also like purple, green, grey…”

“Very well.” Michael waved a hand at her. “You ladies—always bringing the topic back to fashion. It’s quite tiresome.”

Claire knew he was just poking at her to get a reaction, but she couldn’t help shaking her head all the same.

He grinned. “Apologies, Claire. Are you attending the Austens’ ball this week?”

“Yes. Why? Were you hoping to start courting a lady then?”

Michael lifted a shoulder in a shrug and perused the biscuits. “I’d thought about it. But if not Miss Pennington or Miss Rullond, what sort of lady should I court?”