Michael raised a brow in lieu of glowering. “I thought we were not focusing solely on matrimonial prospects. I am quite sure I said so.”
Tyrone inclined his head towards the far side of the room, indicating they should walk. “There is a shocking misconception about the word wooing, and of its uses. One must woo everyone in order to be liked, male and female, young and old. I’ve even tried my hand at wooing Miranda Sterling’s bloodhound, but the blasted creature is too thick to take a liking after all my efforts.”
The mention of the famed Rufus made Michael smile, trying to picture Tyrone’s attempts in persuading the beast to like him. “I’ve no doubt the animal is a peculiar one, or perhaps he is only a merciless judge of character.”
“Don’t defend the rascal,” Tyrone ordered curtly. “It’s all Miranda’s doing, and one of these days, I will find a way behind her machinations. At any rate, that is beside the point.”
“Is it?”
The musicians struck up a rather bright song with a quick tempo, and Tyrone groaned, weaving behind the line of people closest to the dancing, neatly turning his back to the dancing as he did so.
“Yes,” he hissed, his dark brow lowering. “If you want to be liked, you have to be likable, and that requires some very careful, very strategic wooing, especially since you’re already established in Society.”
“As what?” Michael inquired with a narrowing of his eyes. “What am I established as?”
Tyrone only shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You want to change it, so you’ve got to change. Wooing, Sandford.”
Michael considered that as he sidled up to a nearby wall, leaning without much concern for appearances. “What makes you so knowledgeable in such things? I thought you said you lived in obscurity before your sudden rise to fame?”
“How do you think I managed to maintain my obscurity, despite my family name, my fortune, and my eligibility?” Tyrone demanded with a smug smile. “The art of evasion is rather like the art of wooing, and I learned at a very young age how to do both quite well enough to get what I wanted. I can help you to recreate yourself, Sandford, but you’re going to have to decide who you want to be first. And what it is you want.”
Who he wanted to be?
Why not himself?
Well, himself had never really been much of a figure, not since his much younger years, so there wasn’t all that much to be, in that regard. Yet he had not been entirely without being or personality, he’d simply spent a deal of time considering someone else instead. Nothing wrong in that, per se, but he had somehow managed to completely neglect himself until he hardly existed in truth without Charlotte. Tragic, Hugh had called it. Yes, that was a far better word than pathetic. The tragic loss of Michael Sandford had been occurring for years without anybody noticing.
What did he want?
The image of Charlotte floated into his mind, laughing at something he had said in the many moments they had been alone in her home, unchaperoned because he was Michael.
He was safe. He wasn’t a threat. Wasn’t an option.
“I see the two of you have made a great deal of progress,” Hugh teased as he approached with his brother in tow.
They had, in fact, though not so much that the eye could behold it.
Michael looked at the brothers with a smile. “Lost your wives, I see.”
“For the moment,” Lord Sterling allowed, returning the smile. “Until they miss us with such abandon, they seek us out, tears flowing and arms outstretched.”
Tyrone shook his head. “And to think, you could have been an actor on the stage. Such a pity. Cards, gentlemen? I give us three decent rounds of loo before Janet crowns me over the head for ignoring her female guests and forces me to dance again.”
Lord Sterling nodded once. “Four rounds. She’s currently in conversation with your mother.”
Hugh snickered uncontrollably while Tyrone attempted to find some way to defend his mother without disagreeing, and Michael, feeling rather legless in the face of his newfound realizations, followed the group of them out of the ballroom.
It was time for his transformation to commence.
Chapter Seven
One must never forego an opportunity to revise the impressions of Society. The effort will be well worth it.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 25 July 1815
“It’s no good, I simply cannot abide by these deuced new fashions.”
“Of course you can. You’ve managed every other style as it came up from Paris, why should this be any different?”
Charlotte stared at Grace in shock, aghast that she should disagree. “Why? Because the sleeves are barely in existence, my shoulders are very nearly bare, and this bodice is so low that…”
Grace rolled her eyes and gestured for Annette to continue getting Charlotte ready. “Charlotte, the neckline is no lower than any other gown you have worn in the last four years. It only feels amiss due to the other aspects.”
“Aha!” Charlotte cried as her shoulders were pulled back to assist in fastening the back of her gown. “So you do concede that there are impossible factors at hand.”
“Impossible, no.” Grace shook her head, the florets and ribbons in her hair nearly shimmering in the candlelight. “Not in the least. Your figure is magnificent, and you did ask for my recommendations without a proper fitting.”
Charlotte scowled, inhaling a near gasp as the fastenings were done. “You are my most fashionable friend. I thought I should be pleased with your tastes, not sacrificed to them.” She pressed her hands to her bodice, the intermixed pearls pressing into her palms. “Am I supposed to be rendered breathless without the effect of an attractive man?”
Annette came around to
