Page 40 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“Because Araminta Grenwood has been absolutely horrible to me ever since the day I met her. And it might not be the most Christian sentiment, but I found it immensely satisfying to be asked to dance right in front of her by the most handsome man in the room.”
Michael had just taken a sip of his lemonade, and almost spit it right back out, just as he’d almost done yesterday. He glanced at Ceci in shock and found that she was laughing at him.
“Oh, Morsley, if you could see your face! Don’t panic, I promise I’m not setting my cap for you.” She arched an eyebrow. “After all, we both know you didn’t just cross an ocean for me.”
This sent Michael into a fresh fit of coughing. He eyed Ceci with resignation. “You too? I’m starting to think everyone knows.”
Ceci clucked sympathetically. “Not everyone. After all, your dear, sweet Anne has no idea. And if it makes you feel better, I don’t believe Freddie is aware.”
Freddie Astley was thirteen, so that came as little surprise. “I rather thought Lucy was in the dark, too,” Michael said. Lucy was one of Anne’s youngest sisters. She and her twin, Isabella, would have just turned eighteen.
“She was,” Ceci agreed, “but she figured it out quickly enough after you fled to Canada.”
Michael glowered, which sent her into a fresh fit of laughter. “Remind me again why we’re friends,” he muttered, offering her his arm so they could join the set. “First you jest about me being the most handsome man in the room—”
“I wasn’t jesting. Not one bit. Just look at you, Michael Cranfield—all grown up and every bit as handsome as Fauconbridge and Lord Graverley.” She pressed his arm. “It could not have happened to a nicer person.”
Michael ducked his head, and she laughed at his discomfiture.
“So,” she continued, “are you going to propose tonight?”
“I am. I’ve been trying to propose since the moment I got back. We keep getting interrupted.” He dropped his voice. “I just overheard Gladstone and Scudamore talking. They’re both planning to ask her tonight. And they’ve dances with her before I do.”
Ceci’s eyes widened with understanding. She squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry. You told precisely the right person. I’ll make sure nobody gets a chance before you do.”
“But”—Michael grimaced as, across the room, Anne’s partner kissed her hand again—“how can you be sure?”
Ceci’s eyes sparkled. “I have my ways.”
Anne curtsied to Mr. Fitzroy as their dance drew to a close. As they came out of the Allemande position, the back of his hand brushed against her breast. Again. Her smile felt brittle as she struggled to extricate herself without appearing obvious.
“Come with me to the gardens, Lady Wynters,” he said, seizing her hand and giving a suggestive flick of his eyebrow.
Gracious, if he was this forward with half of the ton looking on, Anne didn’t want to find out what he would try should she repair with him to the gardens. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about this evening! She still wasn’t sure what she was going to say when the time came for her to dance with Lord Gladstone. “Oh, um…”
“Lady Wynters!” Anne turned and was immensely relieved to see her friend Mrs. Wriothesley bearing down upon her. “Oh, Lady Wynters, you’ll never believe what has happened!” She turned to Mr. Fitzroy. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but it’s an emergency.” She seized Anne’s arm and began dragging her across the room.
“Oh, dear.” Anne strove to make her face a picture of regret she did not feel. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fitzroy,” she called over her shoulder.
To her friend, Anne whispered, “Thank you for rescuing me! That man is like an octopus—” She broke off, glancing around. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going right here,” Mrs. Wriothesley said, scurrying behind a potted palm. She ducked down so her head was all but concealed and gestured for Anne to do the same.
“Um.” Anne hesitated before copying her friend’s posture. “To be sure, Mr. Fitzroy is more tenacious than one would like. But I don’t think it’s necessary to hide in the shrubbery—”
“Hang Mr. Fitzroy,” Mrs. Wriothesley hissed, peering between the fronds. “Who cares about him? Why didn’t you tell me your ‘best friend’ looked like that?”
Anne felt her cheeks flush. She peeked out from behind the palm, and surely enough, there was Michael, chatting with Cecilia Chenoweth.
She cleared her throat. “Michael has grown up quite a bit since last I saw him. He’s been gone for four years.”
“Well,” Mrs. Wriothesley said, inspecting Michael as if he were on the auction block at Tattersall’s, “his timing could not be better.”
Anne blanched. “His timing? I… I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve just come out of mourning and are in search of a new husband, is what I mean.” Seeing Anne’s panicked expression, Mrs. Wriothesley’s expression softened. “Now, dear, you must grant me a mother’s indulgence. Sometimes the impulse to matchmake is impossible to suppress.”
“It’s not that. It’s just—”
