To Charm a Naughty Countess by Theresa Romain

constructed in a unique and intricate way that few people could understand.
    Caroline was trying, though, and she was determined to succeed. She could never understand a lamp, as Michael did, or calculate the volume of earth to be removed to make an effective canal. But she had pierced her own heart long ago, and she knew how people worked.
    She understood the need cloaked by Michael’s deep eyes: he craved help, though he would never ask for it. He was a man, and a duke, and he was unimaginably proud—three reasons to keep that wall around himself.
    She took metaphorical chisel in hand. “The next time we go to a ball together, Michael, task yourself with noticing the way people act. If their eyes crinkle at the corners, they are pleased. If they laugh, they are likely still more pleased. Only if they turn their bodies away from you need you suspect a snub.”
    “ We , you said. You will accompany me, then? To the next ball I attend?”
    Her stomach squirmed. “I can, since it is in pursuit of your goal. We shall call it the second event of our contract, and if all goes well with Miss Meredith, perhaps it will be the last we need.”
    She gave him precisely two seconds to digest this information: long enough for the words to soak in, but insufficient for a reply. “You now have a means of analyzing human behavior at a ball. We have already disposed of the question of whispering. You will add it to your quiver of testable hypotheses. Is there anything else?”
    He shifted in his chair; through the thin knit of his trousers, she could see the long muscles flexing in his thighs. Half rising, he shot a look at her and lowered himself back into his chair.
    “Stand if you must,” Caroline said. “I can conduct a conversation just as well if you are on your feet as off them.”
    A sideways glance. “You will not think me impolite if I pace?”
    “Pacing is one of the least impolite things you have done since we renewed our acquaintance,” Caroline assured him. “Please proceed. My carpet is quite comfortable to the foot.”
    Michael’s mouth twitched. He stood, walked to the window, then back to the door. Each time he crossed, he picked up speed. When he fell into a step as regular as the tick of a clock, he finally spoke.
    “I dislike the conversation that must be made with people one does not know.” His voice was clipped off with every step he took.
    “How can that be? You carried on at great length with the Weatherby women.”
    His steady stride broke, and his gaze found hers. “You were with me.”
    Her mouth dropped open; she slammed it shut. He had admitted something astounding: that he had needed her.
    How precious, to be needed for something beyond the selection of a fabric, a pleasant afternoon call, a luscious night. For something far more valuable than all her wealth. For herself.
    You were with me , he said, and it mattered to him. Delight bloomed within her.
    She covered it up. Let it rest, hidden, alongside her old desire for him. Instead, she returned to the scientific language he favored. “What I said to the Weatherbys was commonplace enough, Michael. You could certainly duplicate the results.”
    “I doubt I will always find occasion to speak about Lancashire.”
    “Maybe not to begin with.” She looked over her neglected teacup, her plate of untouched biscuits, and crumbled one as she thought. “One often starts a conversation by commenting on the weather or the dinner or some common point of experience. Once the first reserve has been breached, you may find additional points in common or make a remark that is sure to interest others. This makes others feel comfortable, which allows them to enjoy your company.”
    Until she spoke, she had not realized how many interactions each day could be reduced to such interchanges: the greasing of social wheels, the reassurance of everyday topics of conversation. So much that was almost scripted in its regularity. She could certainly teach this method