flyaway, puffed soft as a dandelion crown about her head, at eyes, silver-blue, slightly tip-tilted… “Caro.” The name came to his lips without real thought.
She smiled up at him, clearly delighted; for one instant, he—all of him—stilled.
The screaming horses abruptly fell silent.
“Yes. It’s been years since we’ve spoken…” Her gaze grew vague as she cast her mind back.
“At Camden’s funeral,” he reminded her. Her late husband, Cam-den Sutcliffe, a legend in diplomatic circles, had been His Majesty’s Ambassador to Portugal; Caro had been Sutcliffe’s third wife.
She refocused on his face. “You’re right—two years ago.”
“I haven’t seen you about town.” He had, however, heard of her; the diplomatic corps had dubbed her the Merry Widow. “How are you faring?”
“Very well, thank you. Camden was a good man and I miss him, but…” She shrugged lightly. “There were more than forty years between us, so it was always going to be this way.”
The horse shifted, ineffectually dragging the braked gig. Recalled to the present, they both went forward; Caro held the horse’s head while
Michael untangled the reins, then checked the harness. He frowned. “What happened?”
“I have no idea.” Frowning, too, Caro stroked the horse’s nose. “I was coming from a Ladies’ Association meeting at Fordingham.”
The crisp clop of hooves had them both glancing toward the gates. A gig came trotting smartly through; the large lady driving saw them, waved, then briskly steered the gig toward them.
“Muriel insisted I attend the meeting—you know how she is.” Caro spoke quickly, beneath the rattle of the gig’s approach. “She offered to drive me, but I decided if I was traveling all that way, I would use the trip to call on Lady Kirkwright. So I drove over early, then attended the meeting, and Muriel and I drove back in tandem.”
Michael understood all she was telling him. Muriel was Camden’s niece, Caro’s niece-by-marriage, although Muriel was seven years the elder. She, too, had grown up in Bramshaw; unlike the pair of them, Muriel had never left. Born and raised at Sutcliffe Hall at the far end of the village, she now lived in the village center in Hedderwick House, her husband’s residence, a stone’s throw from the drive of Bramshaw House, Caro’s family home.
More to the point, Muriel had elected herself the organizer of the parish, a role she’d filled for years. Although her manner was often overbearing, everyone, themselves included, bore with her managing disposition for the simple reason that she did a necessary job well.
With a stylish flourish, Muriel brought her gig to a halt in the forecourt. She was handsome in a mannish way, undeniably striking with her upright carriage and dark hair.
She stared at Caro. “Great heavens, Caro!—were you thrown? You’ve grass stains on your gown. Are you all right?” Her tone was faint, as if she couldn’t quite credit her eyes. “The way you took off, I never would have believed you’d succeed in reining Henry in.”
“I didn’t.” Caro waved at Michael. “Luckily Michael was riding out—he bravely leapt into the gig and performed the necessary feat.”
Michael met her eyes, saw the lurking, gracefully grateful smile. Managed not to smile in return.
“Thank goodness for that.” Muriel turned to him, nodding in greeting. “Michael—I didn’t know you’d returned.”
“I arrived this morning. Have you any idea why Henry bolted? I’ve checked reins and harness—there doesn’t seem to be any obvious cause.”
Muriel frowned at Henry. “No. Caro and I were driving home together, then Caro turned into your lane and waved. She was just a little way along when Henry started, then”—Muriel gestured—“off he went.” She looked at Caro.
Who nodded. “Yes, it happened just like that.” She stroked Henry’s nose. “Which is strange—he’s normally a placid beast. I drive him whenever I’m home.”
“Well, next time we meet at Fordingham, I’ll take you up with me, you may be sure.” Muriel widened her eyes. “I nearly had palpitations—I expected to come upon you bloody and broken.”
Caro made no direct answer; frowning, she studied Henry. “Something must have startled him.”
“Possibly a stag.” Muriel gathered her reins. “The bushes are so thick along that stretch, it’s impossible to see what may be lurking.”
“True.” Caro nodded. “But Henry would have known.”
“Indeed. But now you’re safe, I must get on.” Muriel glanced at Michael. “We were discussing arrangements for the church fete, and I must make a start. I assume you’ll be attending?”
He smiled easily. “Of course.” He made a mental note to learn when the fete was. “My regards to Hedderwick, and George if you see him.”
Muriel inclined her head. “I’ll pass your wishes on.” She exchanged a gracious nod with Caro, then eyed Caro’s gig, presently blocking the exit from the forecourt.
Michael glanced at Caro. “Let’s take Henry to the stables. I’ll have Hardacre examine him, see if he can suggest anything to account for his start.”
“An excellent notion.” Caro waited while he reached over and released the gig’s brake, then she waved to Muriel and led Henry forward.
Michael checked that the gig was undamaged and the wheels rolling freely. Once it cleared the forecourt, he saluted Muriel. With a regal nod, she trotted her horse past and around toward the gates. He turned to follow Caro.
Atlas was still standing patiently; Michael clicked his fingers and the bay ambled up. Catching the reins, he wound them about one hand, then lengthened his stride. Coming up on Henry’s other side, he looked across at Caro—at the section of her face he could see over the horse’s head. Her hair glimmered and shimmered in the sunshine, totally unfashionable yet it appeared so soft, it simply begged to be touched. “Are you fixed at Bramshaw House for the summer?”
She glanced at him. “For the moment.” She patted Henry. “I move around between Geoffrey here, Augusta in Derby, and Angela in Berkshire. I have the house in London, but I haven’t yet reopened it.”
He nodded. Geoffrey was her brother, Augusta and Angela her sisters; Caro was the baby, the youngest by many years. He glanced at her again; she was murmuring soothingly to Henry.
A peculiar disorientation still gripped him, as if he were slightly off-balance. And it had to do with her. When they’d briefly met two years ago, she’d been recently bereaved, draped in widow’s weeds and heavily veiled; they’d exchanged a few murmured words, but he hadn’t truly seen or spoken with her. Prior to that, she’d spent the previous decade or so in Lisbon; he’d occasionally glimpsed her across ballrooms or crossed her path when she and Camden were in London, but had never shared more than the usual social pleasantries.
There were only five years between them, yet although they’d known each other since childhood and had spent their formative years growing up in this restricted area of the New Forest, he didn’t truly know her at all.
He certainly didn’t know the elegant and assured lady she’d become.
She looked at him—caught him looking at her—and smiled easily, as if acknowledging a mutual curiosity.
The temptation to assuage it grew.
She looked forward; he followed her gaze. Summoned by the crunch of the gig’s wheels, Hardacre, his stableman, had come out of the stable. Michael beckoned; Hardacre came over, bobbing a deferential greeting to Caro, who returned it with his name and one of her serene smiles. While they walked the gig into the stableyard, Michael and she explained what had happened.
Frowning, Hardacre ran knowledgeable eyes over both horse and gig, then scratched his balding pate. “Best leave him with me for an hour or so—I’ll unharness and check him over. See if there’s some problem.”
Michael looked at Caro. “Are you in a hurry? I could lend you a gig and horse if you are.”
‘No, no.“ She waved aside the offer with a smile. ”An hour of peace would be welcome.“
He recalled, reached solicitously for her arm. “Would you care for tea?”
“That would be delightful.” Caro smiled more definitely as he settled her hand on his sleeve. With a nod for Hardacre, she let Michael steer her toward the house. Her nerves were still flickering, twitching, hardly surprising, yet the panic of being in a runaway gig was already fading—who could have predicted that near-disaster would turn out so well? “Is Mrs. Entwhistle still your housekeeper?”
“Yes. None of the staff have changed, not for years.”
She looked ahead at the solid stone house with its gabled roof and dormer windows. They were walking
