“Indeed.” The countess stepped in to ask, “Is this area usually so favored by the diplomatic set during summer?”
Caro nodded. “There’s always a goodly number of the embassy set about—it’s pleasant countryside close to London, and close to the sailing about the Isle of Wight.”
“Ah, yes.” The countess met her gaze. “That, of course, is why Ferdinand would have us here.”
Caro smiled—and wondered. After an instant’s pause, she turned the conversation into other channels. The duchess and countess followed her lead, but seemed disinclined to let her move on to chat with other ladies.
Or so she felt; the gentlemen returned to the drawing room before she had a chance to test them.
Ferdinand was among the first to stroll in. He saw her instantly; smiling, he came to join her.
Michael walked in some way behind Ferdinand; he paused just inside the door, scanning the room—he saw her by the windows, flanked by the duchess and countess.
For one instant, Caro felt a strange dislocation. Across the room, she faced two men. Between her and Michael, Ferdinand, smiling wolfishly, the epitome of Latin handsomeness and overwhelming charm, approached, his gaze locked on her. Then Michael stepped forward. His attractiveness was more subtle, his strength less so. He walked more slowly, more gracefully, yet with his long-legged stride he was soon only paces behind Ferdinand.
She had no doubt of Ferdinand’s intention, but it wasn’t the wolf who commanded her senses. Even as she forced her gaze to Ferdinand’s face, with her usual easy assurance returned his smile, she was infinitely more aware of Michael slowly, purposefully, advancing.
Almost as if the movement had been choreographed, the duchess and countess murmured their excuses, one on either side lightly touched her hands in farewell, then they swept forward. Flowing around Ferdinand with barely a nod, they closed with Michael.
He had to stop and talk with them.
“My dear Caro, you will forgive me, I know, but you are here.” Ferdinand gestured theatrically. “What would you?”
“Indeed, I’ve no idea,” she replied. “What would I?”
Ferdinand took her arm. “My obsession with Camden Sutcliffe—your presence is an opportunity I cannot resist.” He turned her; under his direction, they strolled down the long room. With Ferdinand’s head bent to hers, it would appear they were deep in some discussion; given the present company, it was unlikely any would interrupt.
His expression one of scholarly interest, Ferdinand continued, “I would, if I may, ask more about an aspect that has always intrigued me. Sutcliffe’s house was here—it must have played a considerable part in his life. Must have”—frowning, he searched for phrases—“been the place he retreated to, where he found greatest comfort.”
She raised her brows. “I’m not sure, in Camden’s case, that his country home—his ancestral home—played as large and important a role as one might suppose.”
Why Ferdinand was pursuing such a tack—surely a strange approach to seducing her—escaped her, yet it was a useful topic with which to pass the time. Especially if it served to keep Ferdinand safely distracted from more direct ventures. “Camden didn’t spend much time here—at Sutcliffe Hall—during his lifetime. Or at least, during his years of diplomatic service.”
“But he grew up here, yes? And this Sutcliffe Hall was his—not just his ancestral home, but it belonged to him, true?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
They strolled on, Ferdinand frowning. “So you are saying he only occasionally visited this Hall during his ambassadorship.”
“That’s right. Usually his visits were fleeting—no more than a day or two, rarely as long as a week, but after the deaths of each of his first two wives he returned to the Hall for some months, so I suppose it’s true to say that the Hall was his ultimate retreat.” She glanced at Ferdinand. “By his wish, he’s buried there, in the old chapel in the grounds.”
“Ah!” Ferdinand nodded as if that last revelation meant much to him.
A disruption within the company had them both looking up; the first of the guests were departing.
Engaged in nodding a distant farewell to the gentleman from the Board of Trade and his wife, Caro didn’t register Ferdinand’s abrupt change of tack until he shifted between her and the rest of the room and, leaning close, murmured, “Dear Caro, it is such a lovely summer night—come walk with me on the terrace.”
Instinctively, she looked toward the terrace, revealed through a pair of open doors that just happened to lie a few paces from them.
To her surprise, she found herself being expertly herded toward the doors.
Instincts briefly warred; it was her practice not to give ground literally or figuratively in such matters, more to spare her would-be seducers than through any concern for her safety—she’d always emerged triumphant from such encounters and had no doubt she always would—yet in this case, her curiosity was aroused.
She acquiesced with a regal inclination of her head and allowed Ferdinand to guide her through the doors and out onto the moonlit flags.
From across the room, Michael watched her slender figure disappear from sight, and inwardly cursed. He didn’t waste time considering what Leponte might be up to; deftly—with the skill that had brought him to the Prime Minister’s notice—he disengaged from the duke and his aide, ostensibly intending to have a word with the gentlemen from the Foreign Office before they departed.
He’d nominated them because they were standing in a group conveniently close to the terrace doors. Cutting smoothly through the other guests, he was aware that the countess and duchess were watching him with increasing agitation. By the time they realized he wasn’t stopping to chat with the last group before the doors…
Ignoring the distant rustle of silks as they moved—too late—to intercept him, he strolled with his usual languid air out onto the terrace.
He barely paused to locate Caro and Leponte, then continued toward them. They stood by the balustrade some little way along, wreathed in shadow yet quite visible; the moon was nearly full. Approaching with lazy, unthreatening strides, he took in the prevailing tensions; Leponte stood close to Caro as she apparently admired the play of moonlight and shadow across the manicured lawns. He was not touching her, although one hand hovered, as if he’d intended to, but had been distracted.
Caro was, if not relaxed, then certainly assured—her usual calm and collected self. The tension that had gripped him faded; she clearly didn’t need him to rescue her.
If anyone needed rescuing, it was Leponte.
That seemed plain as, hearing him, the Portuguese glanced his way. Befuddlement, utter and complete, etched his face.
Drawing near enough to hear their conversation—or rather, Caro’s dissertation on the principles of landscape gardening as propounded by Capability Brown and his followers—Michael understood. He could almost find it in him to feel sorry for Ferdinand.
Caro sensed his approach, glanced his way, and smiled. “I was just explaining to Mr. Leponte that this garden was originally laid out by Capability Brown, and then improved more recently by Humphrey Repton. It’s an amazing example of their combined talents, don’t you think?”
Michael met her gaze, smiled lightly. “Indubitably.”
She rattled on. The duchess and countess had paused in the drawing room doorway; Caro saw them and beckoned. For their part in Ferdinand’s scheme to get her alone, she subjected them to a lecture on gardening that would have made an enthusiast wilt. The countess, looking highly conscious, tried to slip away; Caro linked her arm in hers and extolled the theories of coppicing in unrelenting detail.
Michael stood back and let her have her revenge; although she never stepped over any social line, he was quite certain it was that, and so were her victims. Ferdinand looked sheepish, but also thankful to have her attention deflected from him; Michael wondered just how ruthless she’d been in dismissing Ferdinand’s advances.
Finally, the duchess,
edging away, murmured that she had to return to her departing guests. Still enthusing, Caro consented to follow her back into the drawing room.
Ten minutes later, with the company thinning, he interrupted her eloquence. “We have a long drive ahead of us—we should join the exodus.”
She glanced at him, met his gaze. Her eyes were beaten silver, quite impenetrable. Then she blinked, nodded. “Yes—I daresay you’re right.”
Five minutes more saw them taking leave of their hosts; Ferdinand walked with them to the carriage. When Caro paused before the open carriage door and gave him her hand, he bowed over it with courtly flair.
“My dear Mrs. Sutcliffe, I greatly look forward to being present at your ball.” He straightened, met her eyes. “I will look forward to seeing the gardens of Sutcliffe Hall, and to your explanation of their wonders.”
Michael gave the man credit for gumption—few others would have dared. Yet if he’d expected to discompose Caro, he’d misjudged.
She smiled, sweetly, and informed him, “I’m afraid you’ve misread the invitation. The ball is to be held at Bramshaw House, not Sutcliffe Hall.”
Noting Ferdinand’s surprise and the frown that followed it, the frown he quickly hid, Caro inclined her head, all graciousness. “I will look forward to seeing you and your party then.”
Turning to the carriage, she accepted Michael’s hand and climbed up. She sat on the seat facing forward. An instant later, he filled the doorway. He looked at her; in the dimness she couldn’t see his face.
“Shift along.”
She frowned, but he was already looming over her, waiting for her to move so he could sit beside her. An argument with Ferdinand still close enough to hear would be undignified.
Hiding a grimace, she did as he asked. He sat, far too close for her liking, and the footman shut the door. An instant later, the carriage rocked, and they were on their way.
They’d barely started along the drive when Michael asked, “Why was Leponte so put out that your ball will not be at Sutcliffe Hall?”
“I don’t really know. He seems to have developed a fascination for Camden—studying what influences made him what he was.”
“Leponte?”
Michael fell silent. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his large body on the seat beside her. Even though his thigh was not touching hers, she could sense its heat. As usual, his nearness made her feel peculiarly fragile. Delicate.
Finally, he said, “I find that hard to believe.”
So did she. She lightly shrugged, and looked out at the shifting shadows of the forest. “Camden was, after all, extremely successful. Regardless of his present employ, I assume Ferdinand will ultimately step into his uncle’s shoes. Perhaps that’s why he’s here—learning more.”
Michael humphed and looked ahead. He didn’t trust Leponte, not when it came to Caro, not in any respect; he’d assumed his distrust arose from the obvious source—from those primitive possessive instincts she aroused in him. Now, however, in light of the countess’s and duchess’s behavior, in view of that final moment beside the carriage, he was no longer so certain at least part of his distrust didn’t spring from a more professional reaction.
He’d been prepared to accept and manage, even suppress, a distrust that arose from personal emotions; he was a consummate politician after all. Distrust that arose from prickling professional instincts was something else entirely—that could well be too dangerous to ignore, even for a short time.
Recognizing a landmark outside, gauging how much time they still had alone in the darkness of the carriage, he glanced at Caro. “What did you and Leponte talk about at table?”
She leaned against the plush cushions, through the dimness regarded him. “Initially it was the usual small talk, then he started on his tack as a Camden Sutcliffe accolyte with a detailed overview of Camden’s career.”
“Accurate, would you say?”
“In all respects he touched on, certainly.”
He could tell by her tone, by the way she paused, that she was puzzled, too. Before he could prompt, she continued, “Then in the drawing room he asked about Sutcliffe Hall, theorizing that the place must have been significant to Camden.”
Through the gloom, he studied her. “Was it?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so—I don’t believe Camden thought so. I never detected any great attachment on his part.”
“Hmm.” He settled back, reached out and took her hand. Her fingers fluttered, then quieted; he curled his more firmly around them. “I think”—slowly he lifted her trapped hand to his lips—“that I’ll be keeping an eye on Leponte at the ball, and wherever else we meet him.”
She was watching; he could sense the tension spreading through her. Turning his head, through the gloom he caught her gaze. “For a number of excellent reasons.”
He placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles.
She watched, then, gaze locked on her hand, drew in a tight breath. An instant passed, then, frowning, she lifted her eyes to his. “What—?”
He raised her hand again, lightly brushed his lips over her knuckles, then, eyes on hers, slowly, with the tip of his tongue, he traced them.
Her response was immediate and strong. A shudder racked her; she briefly closed her eyes.
Before she opened them, he shifted and pulled her to him, his other hand rising to cup and frame her jaw, to angle her face so his lips could cover hers.
He was kissing her—and she was kissing him back—before she had a chance to retreat.
Releasing her hand, he reached for her, drew her more definitely to him. As before, her hands rose to his chest, tensed as if she would resist; he deepened the kiss, and her resistance never came.
Instead…gradually, step by subtle step, he coaxed not just acceptance but willing participation from her. Initially, she seemed to believe that after the first exchange he’d stop—she seemed to be waiting for him to do so. When he didn’t, indeed made it perfectly clear he had no intention of not further indulging, tentatively, hesitantly, she joined him.
Her lips were soft, sweet, her mouth pure temptation; when she offered it, he rejoiced, and took, conscious that some part of her mind was watching, puzzled, almost surprised…why he couldn’t imagine.
She was a delight, one he savored, stretching out the simple moments as he never had before.
He caressed, claimed, then teased, ultimately taunted and got the response—a more fiery, definite, passionate response—that he’d wanted, that he knew she had it in her to give. He wanted that and more—all she had to give—but was tactician enough to realize that with her, each step and stage had to be battled for and won.
The Merry Widow was not going to yield so much as one inch without a fight.
That, very likely, was why so many had failed with her. They’d assumed they could leap ahead, overlook the preliminaries, and instead had stumbled at the very first hurdle.
Kissing her.
If, as it seemed, for some mystical reason she’d got it into her head that she was hopeless at kissing…it was difficult to seduce a woman who wasn’t willing to be kissed.
Secure in his victory, he drew her closer yet, angled his lips over hers. Her breasts brushed his chest; her arms started to slide over his shoulders, then stopped, tensed.
The carriage slowed, then turned into Bramshaw Lane.
With a gasp, she pulled back—enough to hiss his name in warning.
“Sssh.” Inexorably he drew her even deeper into his embrace. “You don’t want to shock your coachman.”
Her eyes flew wide. “Wh—”
He cut off her shocked question in the most efficient way. They had at least seven more minutes before they reached Bramshaw House; he intended to enjoy every one.
8
Caro woke the next morning determined to regain control of her life. And her senses. Michael seemed intent on seizing both—to what end she didn’t know—however, whatever, she was not going to be a party to it.
/> As she had been for the last half of their journey home from Leadbetter Hall.
Smothering a curse at her newfound susceptibility, at the tangle of curiosity, fascination, and schoolgirlish need that had allowed him to take such liberties and seduced her into participating as she had, she closed her room door, flicked her skirts straight, and headed for the stairs.
Breakfast and the fresh slate of a new day would give her all she needed to get her life back on track.
Gliding down the stairs, she inwardly grimaced. She was probably overreacting. It had only been a kiss—well, numerous rather warming kisses, but still, that was hardly cause for panic. For all she knew, he might have had enough, and she wouldn’t even need to be on guard.
“Ah, there you are, m’dear.” Sitting at the head of the dining table, Geoffrey looked up. He nodded to Elizabeth and Edward, both seated at the table, heads together, poring over a single sheet. “An invitation from the Prussians. They’ve asked me, too, but I’d rather not—other things to do. I’ll leave the giddy dissipation to you.”
That last was said with a fond smile that included both her and Elizabeth; while Geoffrey delighted in his family’s social prominence, since Alice’s death he no longer himself cared for any but the most simple entertainments.
Catten held Caro’s chair at the other end of the table; she sat, reached for the teapot with one hand, and imperiously held out the other for the invitation.
Edward handed it to her. “An impromptu alfresco luncheon—by which I assume they mean a picnic.”
She glanced at the single sheet. “Hmm. Lady Kleber is first cousin to the Grand Duchess, and is something of a figure in her own right.” Lady Kleber had written personally, inviting them to join what she described as “a select company.”
There was, of course, no chance of refusing. Quite aside from the discourtesy involved, the general’s wife was only returning Caro’s hospitality; it had been she who had started this round of entertainments with her dinner to rescue Elizabeth.
Sipping her tea, she suppressed her frown. There was no point trying to escape the outcome of her own scheming. All she could do was hope, almost certainly in vain, that Michael wasn’t one of Lady Kleber’s selections.
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