He read her eyes, then glanced at Muriel, his politician’s facade sliding seamlessly into place. “I’d be delighted to take supper with the ladies. You must have some new members since last I was down.”
“Indeed.” Muriel smiled graciously; the Ladies’ Association was her pride and joy. “We’ve done well this past year, but you’ll hear of our successes tomorrow.”
Her gaze shifted, going past them as Hardacre came up, leading the three horses. Muriel looked at Caro. “If you’re heading home, Caro, perhaps you could ride beside the gig and we could go over the plans for the fete?”
She nodded. “Why not?” Sensing Michael’s hand rising to touch her back, she quickly looked down and descended the steps. She started toward Calista, then realized that Muriel was watching everyone like a hawk; the last thing they needed was any question being raised in anyone’s mind about Michael and Elizabeth.
Dragging in a breath, she swung around—to see Michael shaking hands with Edward and nodding politely to Elizabeth in farewell. Releasing Edward’s hand, Michael waved her on. “Come—I’ll lift you up.”
Her smile felt weak, but she could hardly wait for Edward to lift Elizabeth up and then help her, too, not with Michael standing there offering. Steeling every nerve, outwardly calm, she walked to Calista’s side. Dragging in another breath, she held it, and turned.
And found he was less than a foot away.
He reached for her—and it was worse than she’d anticipated. Her nerves literally quaked. He was so much taller than she, her eyes were level with his collarbone; his shoulders were so wide, he blocked her off from the world.
He gripped her waist and she felt weak, light-headed, as if his strength somehow drained hers.
He hesitated, holding her between his hands. She felt oddly small, fragile, vulnerable. Captured. Her whole world condensed, drew in. She could feel her heart thudding in her throat.
Then he lifted her, easily, and sat her in her saddle. His grip loosened; his hands slid slowly from about her waist. Reaching for the stirrup, he held it.
She managed to thank him; her words sounded distant to her ears.
She settled her boot in the stirrup, then fussed with her skirts. Finally managed to breathe, to swallow. Gathering her reins, she looked up. Smiled at Muriel. “Let’s be off, then.”
Michael stepped back.
Caro waved in his direction, then wheeled Calista to come up beside Muriel’s gig. Edward and Elizabeth waved, too, then sent their mounts to fall in behind the gig.
Michael watched the little cavalcade until it passed out of sight. He remained for some minutes, staring at the gates, then turned on his heel and went inside.
Chapter 5
At least he now knew why he needed to know more—a lot more— about Caro.
Relaxed in his chair at the breakfast table the next morning, he wondered why he’d been so slow to correctly interpret the signs. Perhaps because it was Caro and he’d known her forever. Regardless, he was now fully cognizant of at least one of the emotions keeping him so intently focused on her.
It had been a long time since he had, entirely of his own volition, without the slightest encouragement, lusted after a woman. Actively wanted her even though she was intent on running the other way.
Or so he read Caro’s reaction. She’d felt the attraction, that spark that required no thought and asked no permissions; her response had been to avoid giving it a chance to strike, and if that wasn’t possible, then to pretend it hadn’t.
From experience, he knew her tack wouldn’t work. As long as they remained in sufficient proximity to ensure they would meet and inevitably touch, the need would grow only more potent, the spark com-mensurately more powerful, until they let it burn.
The only problem he could see in that was that the woman involved was Caro.
Her reaction wasn’t a surprise. Unlike Ferdinand, he knew the correct interpretation of her nickname. The “Merry Widow” was, as such English nicknames sometimes were, a perverse expression. In Caro’s case, she was an outwardly merry widow in that she was a hostess of some note, but the real meaning was that she’d been chased by the best of them, yet had refused to be caught. Just as red-haired men were often called Bluey she was, in reality a severely chaste widow who never encouraged anyone to imagine otherwise.
She was the opposite of what the term “Merry Widow” led the naive to suppose.
Which meant he was in for a difficult and uncomfortable time of it, at least until he convinced her that her only option was one that would suit her as well as it would suit him.
Savoring the last of his coffee, he considered how long convincing her might take. Considered the hurdles before him. To be the gentleman who tempted the Merry Widow enough to get into her bed, and her…
A challenge indeed.
It would be a diplomatic triumph of an unusual order, even if no one ever knew of his success. But they would, of course; that was part of his plan.
He could pull it off; he was a politician born and bred, and such innate qualities were precisely those required. He just had to finesse his way past Caro’s defenses.
And along the way, when he had her defenseless in his arms, he’d learn what it was that had so upset her, and if he could, put it right.
Deeming it wise to let the day go by, to let her normal, natural confidence reassert itself and assure her she was safe, that he posed no threat to her and so didn’t need to be kept at a distance, he schooled himself to sit in his study and deal with the months’ worth of accounts and minor details his agent had dutifully left piled on his desk.
Two hours later, he was steadily plodding through the pile when Carter tapped on the door and entered.
“Mrs. Sutcliffe has called, sir.”
He checked his memory. “Which Mrs. Sutcliffe?” Caro? Or one of Camden’s nieces-by-marriage‘?
Mrs. Caroline, sir. She’s in the drawing room.“ Thank you, Carter.” He rose, wondering, then inwardly shrugged. He’d learn soon enough.
When he entered the drawing room, Caro was standing before the windows looking out over the front lawn. Sunbeams lanced through her cloud of frizzy hair, striking copper and red glints from the golden brown. Her gown was a pale blue a few shades darker than her eyes; fine and summer light, it clung to her figure.
She heard him and turned, smiled.
And he instantly knew she was a long way from believing him un-threatening. As usual, however, it was only instinct that told him so; Caro herself gave nothing away.
“I hope you don’t mind—I’ve come to sound you out and pick your brains.”
He returned her smile, waved her to the chaise. “How can I help?”
Caro grasped the moment of crossing to the chaise, gathering her skirts and sinking gracefully down, then waiting for him to lounge, relaxed but attentive in the armchair facing her, to marshal her thoughts and dragoon her wits out of the morass of irrational panic they’d developed a habit of sinking into every time the possibility of Michael’s coming close to her loomed.
She didn’t understand her sudden sensitivity; she could barely believe that after all her years of extensive worldly experience, she was now—here in deepest Hampshire—falling victim to such an affliction. Determined to conquer it, or at the very least ignore it, she clung to her pose of assured serenity. “I’ve decided to give a ball on the evening preceding the church fete. It occurred to me that with so many from London in the neighborhood, if we hold a ball, invite them all, and arrange to house them locally overnight, then they could spend the next day at the fete before heading off in the afternoon.”
She paused, then added, “I suppose what I’m proposing is a condensed house party with the ball as its highlight and the fete as its extension.”
Michael’s gaze remained on her face; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. After a moment, he asked, “So your underlying purpose is to use the ball to bolster attendance at the fete, especially with those down from London, which in turn will greatly increase local interest, thus ensuring the fete is a resounding success?” ‘
