With his head, he indicated a group by the side of the room. “I haven’t spoken with Mrs. Kendall yet.” He caught Caro’s gaze, let his smile deepen. “She’ll want to tell me about the boys’ home. Come and support me.”
He intended to behave as he meant to go on; he wondered how long it would take her to recognize his new direction.
She steeled herself, faint tension infusing her spine as if to guard against the effect he had on her, but, still smiling, still glowing with that inner happiness, she inclined her head. “If you wish, but I can’t think what support you might need from me.”
Glancing at Michael’s face, Caro saw his smile flash—was it her imagination that, just for that instant, painted it predatory?—but his expression was easy as he met her gaze and murmured, “You’re the only one in the room of similar background—you’re the only one who truly understands my jokes.”
She laughed; as before, the touch of humor soothed her taut nerves. She was content to accompany him while he spoke with Mrs. Kendall, who did indeed want to discuss the boys’ home, then they moved on to speak with others, some intent on claiming her attention, some his.
That afternoon, on returning from the Manor floating on a cloud of unfettered relief, she’d gone straight to the parlor and reported their success to Elizabeth and Edward. They’d celebrated over tea, congratulating themselves and admitting, now they could, that playing such tricks on Michael, mild though they had been and definitely for his own good, had not sat altogether well with them.
But he’d seen, and agreed, and by that agreement absolved them; she felt so thoroughly happy and vindicated, subduing her silly reaction enough to remain by his side for a while seemed a very small price to pay.
An hour passed surprisingly easily, then Muriel announced that supper was laid out in the dining room. Finding herself by Michael’s side at the long buffet, with him helping her to herb patties and shrimp in aspic, surrounded by numerous others yet still somehow with him alone, she paused, then slanted him a glance.
He felt it, looked at her. He searched her eyes, then raised a brow, his lips lightly curving. “What is it?”
She glanced down at a platter of cucumber florets. “You should circulate, not stick by my side.”
He waited until she looked up again to ask, “Why?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “As you’re perfectly aware, this is one of those occasions when a Member needs to work the room.”
His smile was genuine. “Yes, I know.”
She decided against the cucumber, stepped away from the table.
Plate in one hand, he took her elbow and steered her toward the bank of windows open to the rear garden. “I just can’t see why we can’t circulate together.”
Because every time he touched her, her nerves seized and she forgot how to breathe.
She kept her tongue between her teeth, kept a serene, relaxed expression on her face, and fought to ignore the way her senses fixed on him, how they reached for and craved the solid strength of him as he walked, languidly assured, by her side. She knew perfectly well how solid his body was; she’d collided with it twice now. For some illogical, irrational, totally witless reason, her senses were luridly, slaveringly fixated on what the third time would be like.
Halting before the windows, he released her; facing him, she drew in a breath. Before she could utter the protest she was certain she should, he said, “Think of it as me claiming your protection.”
“Protection?” She sent him a look that stated very clearly she wasn’t about to accept any such spurious reasoning—or any appeal to her feminine emotions, either. “You, of all people, in this crowd, need no protection beyond your own gilded tongue.”
He laughed, and she felt more comfortable, a touch more in control.
Suddenly realized that with him—and in truth, with him alone, at least within the confines of her private life —she did not, as she did with everyone else, exercise her usual level of mastery. Or rather, she might exercise it, yet it might very well not work. Her ability to manage him was not assured, not something she could take for granted.
They’d been eating, nibbling; she glanced up at him. He trapped her gaze; he’d been watching her face. He studied her eyes, then raised a brow in mute question.
She let her chin set. “Why are you clinging to my side?”
His brows rose; his eyes laughed at her. “I would have thought that’s obvious—you’re a much more entertaining companion than anyone else here, especially our often overhelpful hostess.”
She had to grant him that last. Muriel’s attempts at assistance could sometimes be disastrous. Yet she wagged a finger at him. “You know perfectly well you’re pleased she’s organized this evening—you’ve been able to do your local rounds without lifting a finger.”
“I never said I wasn’t grateful—it’s merely that my gratitude extends only so far.”
“
His smile was devastating. “Asked you to do it, of course.”
Ignoring the effect of that smile, she humphed again.
His expression turned mock-hurt. “Wouldn’t you have helped me?”
She glanced at him, tried to make her look severe. “Possibly. If I was bored. Only I’m not that bored at present, so you should be especially grateful to Muriel.”
Before she’d finished speaking, his gaze had turned considering, as if contemplating some different prospect.
“Actually, I should probably do something about the area south of Lyndhurst—”
“No.” Realizing what tack he was following, her response was instantaneous.
He refocused on her face, then tilted his head, a slight frown in his eyes; he seemed more intrigued than rejected. Then his expression eased; straightening, he took her empty plate from her. “We can talk about it later.”
“No, we can’t.” She was not going to act as a political or diplomatic hostess for him or any man ever again. In her own right, she might enjoy exercising her true talents, but she would not play that role for any man again.
He’d turned away to set their plates on a side table; when he turned back, she was surprised to discover his expression serious, his blue eyes unusually hard, yet his tone when he spoke was calming. “We can, and will, but not here, not now.”
For an instant, he held her gaze; she was looking at the real man, not the politician. Then he smiled, and his social mask overlaid that too-determined look; raising his head, he took her arm. “Come and help me with Mrs. Harris. How many children does she have these days?”
Reminding herself that despite his occasional lapses into what she classified as “presumptuous male” behavior, she was in good humor with him, she consented to accompany him and speak with Mrs. Harris.
And subsequently with a succession of others.
When, courtesy of a speculative glance from old Mrs. Tricket, she realized that his liking for her company was raising hares, rather than argue—in her experience a pointless exercise with a presumptuous male—she seized the opportunity of Muriel’s being in the group with whom they were engaged to move to her side and murmur, “Thank you for a very pleasant evening.”
Muriel, taking in Michael at her side, currently speaking with Mrs. Ellingham, looked at her in surprise. “You’re leaving?”
She smiled. “Indeed. I wanted to mention… I’ve decided to hold a ball on the evening before the fete. There are a number of the diplomatic set presently in the area—I thought if they stay overnight, they can attend the fete the next day, boosting our attendance.‘
“Ah.” Muriel blinked. “I see.”
She didn’t appear enamored of the notion, but that was almost certainly because she hadn’t thought of it first. Patting her arm, Caro went on, “I left Edward and Elizabeth struggling with the invitations—I must go and do my part. Again, thank you—I’ll send your invitation around tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Muriel nodded, her gaze going past Caro. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s something I must to see to.”
They parted. Caro turned to Michael, who had finished with Mrs. Ellingham. She let her smile deepen. “I’m heading home.”
