Returning her attention to Ferdinand, she consented to be served with a concoction of mussels and shallots in herb broth.
“They are English mussels, of course,” Ferdinand gestured with his fork, “but the dish is from Albufeira—my home.”
Increasingly intrigued by his persistence, she decided to let herself be drawn. “Indeed?” Skewering a mussel on the tines of her fork, she considered it, then glanced at Ferdinand. “Do I take it you live near your uncle and aunt?” She popped the morsel into her mouth and watched his gaze lock on her lips.
He blinked. “Ah…” His eyes returned to hers. “Yes.” He nodded and looked down at his plate. “We all—my parents and cousins and my other uncles and aunts—live at the
She laughed. “I greatly fear Portugal will have to grin and bear my absence. I have no plans to leave England’s shores in the foreseeable future.”
“Ah, no!” Ferdinand’s features reflected dramatic pain. “It is a loss, at least in our little corner of the world.”
She smiled and finished the last of her mussels.
Their plates were cleared. Ferdinand leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We all understand, of course, that you were devoted to Ambassador Sutcliffe, and even now revere his memory.”
He paused, watching closely. Her smile in place, she reached for her wineglass, raised it to her lips; as she sipped, she met his dark eyes. “Indeed.”
She wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss Ferdinand and his by-English-standards histrionic behavior. He was probing, searching—for what she had no clue. But while he was good, she was better. She gave him no inkling of her true feelings and waited to see where he would go.
He cast his eyes down, feigning… shyness? “I have long harbored a regard bordering on fascination for Sutcliffe—he was the consummate diplomat. There is so much that can be learned from a study of his life—his successes, his strategies.”
Really?“ She looked mildly bemused, although he wasn’t the first to take that tack.
But yes! Just think of his first actions on taking up his post in Lisbon, when he—“
The next course was set before them. Ferdinand continued to ex-Pound on the highlights of Camden’s career. Content to have him thus occupied, she encouraged him; he was extremely well informed of the catalog of her late husband’s actions.
By judiciously adding her own observations, she extended the discussion over the rest of the courses; Ferdinand looked up, slightly surprised when the duchess rose to lead the ladies from the room.
In the drawing room, the duchess and countess claimed her attention.
“Is it always this warm during your summer?” The duchess languidly waved her fan.
Caro smiled. “Actually, it’s quite mild this year. Is this your first visit to England?”
The slow beat of the fan faltered, then resumed. “Yes, it is.” The duchess met her eyes and smiled. “We have spent much of the last years with the embassies in Scandanavia.”
“Ah—no wonder the weather here seems warm to you, then.”
“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
