was forming of Caro.
That, however, was not what he was waiting to learn, not why he remained so intensely focused on her.
Something he’d said had hurt her, and she’d retreated behind the highly polished persona she showed to the world.
It was, he reminded himself as he searched for cracks and found none, a persona she’d perfected over a decade under the most exacting circumstances. Like a highly polished metal mask, that facade was impenetrable; it gave nothing away.
By the time they packed up the remnants of their feast and shook out the rug, he’d accepted that the only way he would learn more about Caro was if she consented to tell him. Or consented to let him see her as she truly was.
He mentally paused, wondering why learning more about her, the real Caro who hid behind the mask, was suddenly so vitally important. No answer came, yet…
They reached the horses and milled about, retying the saddlebags. Caro was having difficulties; he circled behind her intending to help— her mare shifted, bumping Caro back—into him.
Her back met his chest, her bottom his thighs.
His hands went to her waist, instinctively gripping and steadying her against him. She stiffened; her breath had caught. He released her and stepped back, acutely aware of his own reaction.
“Whoops! Sorry.” She smiled up at him ingenuously but didn’t meet his eyes as, moving to her side, he reached up to take the laces she was struggling to tie.
She drew her hands away too swiftly, but he caught the laces before they unraveled.
“Thank you.”
He kept his gaze on the laces as he tied them. “That should hold it.”
His expression easy, he stepped back. And turned to help Elizabeth into her saddle, leaving Edward to lift Caro to hers.
Walking to where Atlas stood waiting, he glanced back at the others. “There’s still hours of sunshine left.” He smiled at Elizabeth. “Why don’t we ride through the forest, skirt around Fritham, and stop by the Manor for afternoon tea?”
They exchanged glances, brows rising.
“Yes, let’s.” Elizabeth faced him, simple pleasure in her smile. “That will be a lovely ending to a pleasant day.”
Michael looked at Caro. One of her charming smiles curving her lips, she nodded. “An excellent suggestion.”
He swung up to Atlas’s saddle and they turned into the forest. He, Caro, and Elizabeth knew the way. They rode through the glades, sometimes galloping, then slowing to amble along the path to the next open ride. Whoever was in the lead steered them. The sun filtered down through the thick canopies, dappling the track; the rich forest scents rose around them, the quiet punctuated by birdcalls and the occasional rustle of larger beasts.
No one attempted to converse; Michael was content to let the companionable silence lengthen and take hold. Only among friends would Caro not feel it necessary to chat; that she didn’t make the effort was encouraging.
They approached the Manor from the south, emerging from the outliers of Eyeworth Wood to clatter into the stableyard. Hardacre took charge of their mounts; they walked up through the old orchard to the house.
Leading the way along the corridor to the front hall, Caro glanced back at him. “The terrace? It’ll be lovely out there.”
He nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll speak with Mrs. Entwhistle about tea.”
Mrs. Entwhistle had heard them come in; the prospect of providing tea and sustenance for their small party quite delighted her, reminding Michael of how little the housekeeper generally had to do.
He found the others seated about the wrought-iron table. The sun, still above the treetops to the west, bathed the area in golden light. His gaze on Caro’s face, he drew out the last chair and sat, once again opposite her; she seemed to have relaxed, yet he couldn’t be sure.
Elizabeth turned to him. “Caro was just telling me she’d heard a rumor that Lord Jeffries was to resign. Is it true?”
Lionel, Lord Jeffries had been appointed to the Board of Trade only the year before, but his tenure had been marked by diplomatic incident after incident. “Yes.” Across the table, he met Caro’s gaze. “Inevitable after his latest gaffe.”
“So it’s true he called the Belgian ambassador an extortionist to his face?” Caro’s eyes twinkled.
He nodded. “Burnt his last bridge in the process, but I can imagine it was almost worth it to see Rochefoucauld’s face.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Did you? See his face?”
He grinned. “Yes—I was there.”
“Jupiter!” Edward whistled through his teeth. “I heard Jeffries’ aides were beside themselves—it must have been an impossible situation.”
“The instant Jeffries set eyes on Rochefoucauld, the die was cast. Nothing—not even the Prime Minister— could have stopped him.”
They were still discussing the latest diplomatic scandal when Jeb Carter carried out the tea tray.
Immediately, Caro looked at Michael; he was waiting to catch that look—to see her understanding in her quicksilver eyes, to bask in her approval.
Little by little, step by step; he was determined to draw closer to her, and would exploit any tool that came to hand.
“Will you pour?” he asked.
She reached for the pot, flashing a delighted smile Carter’s way, inquiring after his mother before letting him, blushing at being remem-
Elizabeth took her cup, sipped, a frown in her eyes—then her face cleared. “Of course—he’s Muriel’s last butler, the one she recently turned off.” Her puzzlement returned. “How did you know him?”
Caro smiled and explained; Jeb had been away training in London for so long Elizabeth hadn’t remembered him.
Of course, Caro had been away for even longer. Sipping his tea, watching as she reminded Elizabeth of various others in the district, workers and their families and where they were now, who had married whom, who had died or moved away, Michael wondered if she ever forgot anyone. Such a memory for people and personal details was a godsend in political circles.
The minutes passed easily; the afternoon waned. The pot had gone cold and Mrs. Entwhistle’s cakes had disappeared when, at Caro’s request, he asked for their horses to be brought around. They’d risen and were walking down the terrace steps to wait in the forecourt when the rattle and clop of an approaching gig reached them.
Caro halted on the steps; raising a hand to shade her eyes, she looked to see who it was. The aftereffects of her momentary weakness as they’d approached the Rufus Stone had gradually faded; her nerves had settled—she felt reasonably calm once more. Later, she’d castigate herself for reacting as she had—when she was safely in her room and a long way from Michael.
Otherwise, the day had gone more or less as she’d wished; she doubted they’d advanced their cause, yet neither had they harmed it— and Michael had had no chance to make an offer, or even to discuss such matters with her.
It had been a positive day by default; she was content with that.
The gig came into sight, the horse trotting smartly up the drive with Muriel on the seat. She was an excellent whip; she halted the gig before the steps in some style. “Caro. Michael.”
Muriel exchanged nods with them and with Edward and Elizabeth, then looked at Michael. “I’m giving one of my suppers for the Ladies’ Association tomorrow evening. As you’re home, I came to invite you to attend—I know all the ladies would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you.”
Michael stepped down to stand beside Caro; she felt his gaze touch her face. Guessing what was behind his hesitation, she glanced at him, smiled. “Do come. You’ll know most of us there.”
Despite their earlier contretemps—and she had to forgive him. he couldn’t know—she was in reasonable charity with him. Since that painful moment, he’d behaved with exemplary tact.
