reluctantly.
“I’m a widow.” Halting two paces away, she pressed her hands tightly together, then faced him. Fixing her eyes on his, she lifted her chin. “It’s perfectly feasible—a straightforward matter—for us to have an affair.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Just so I have this perfectly straight… you, the Merry Widow, are agreeing to be seduced.” He paused, then asked, “Is that correct?”
She held his gaze, wished she didn’t need to answer, finally, briefly, nodded. “Yes.”
He stood silent, still, studying her; she could read nothing from his face, in the dimness couldn’t see his eyes. Then he stirred almost imperceptibly; she sensed an inner sigh.
When he spoke, his voice was stripped of all lightness, all seduction, all pretense. “I don’t want an affair, Caro—I want to marry you.”
She couldn’t hide her reaction, the instinctive, deeply ingrained panic, her desperate recoil from the very words—from the threat in those words. Her lungs had clamped tight; head rising, muscles tensing, she faced him.
Even through the dimness, Michael saw her fear, saw the panic that dulled her silver eyes. He fought the urge to grab her, to haul her into his arms and soothe her, reassure her… what was this?
“I don’t want to get married—I won’t ever marry again. Not you. Not any man.” The words quavered with emotion, charged, resolute. She dragged in a breath. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to the house.”
She swung away.
“Caro—”
“
With a shake of her head, she picked up her skirts and walked quickly across the summerhouse, down the steps, then hurried—almost ran—away across the lawn.
Michael stood in the shadows of the summerhouse with the storm closing in, and wondered what the devil had gone wrong.
Later that night, with the wind shrieking about the eaves and lashing the trees in the wood, he stood at his library window, a glass of brandy in his hand, watching the treetops flex, and thinking. Of Caro.
He didn’t understand, couldn’t even guess what was behind her aversion—her complete and. unequivocal rejection—of another marriage. The sight of her face when he’d reiterated his wish to marry her replayed again and again in his mind.
Regardless of that reaction, his intention had deflected not at all. He would marry her. The thought of not having her as his wife had become simply unacceptable—he didn’t completely understand that either, but knew absolutely that it was so. In some odd way, the events of the evening had only hardened his resolve.
He sipped his brandy, looked out, unseeing, and plotted his way forward; he’d never been one to back away from a challenge, even from a challenge he’d never in his wildest dreams imagined he would face.
As matters stood, his task was not to seduce Caro in the customary sense—it appeared he’d already largely succeeded in that, or could succeed whenever he wished. Instead, his true aim—his Holy Grail—was to seduce her into marriage.
His lips twisted wryly; he drained his glass. When he’d headed south from Somersham intent on securing his ideal bride, he’d never imagined he’d face such a battle—that the lady who was his ideal consort would not happily accept his proposal.
So much for blind arrogance.
Turning from the window, he crossed to an armchair. Sinking down, setting his empty glass on the side table, he steepled his fingers; propping his chin on his thumbs, he stared across the room.
Caro was stubborn, resolute.
He was stubborner, and prepared to be relentless.
The only way to undermine her resistance, so strong and entrenched as it clearly was, was to attack its source. Whatever that was.
He needed to find out, and the only way to learn was via Caro.
The best approach seemed obvious. Straightforward, even simple.
First he would get her into his bed, then he’d learn what he needed and do whatever it took to keep her there.
Chapter 10
The following afternoon, Caro sat in the window seat of the back parlor and embroidered, while across the room Edward and Elizabeth played chess.
She was not good company; she’d spent all morning trying to distract herself with plans for the fete, now only three days away, but she remained upset and angry.
Angry with herself, angry with Michael.
She should have foreseen his direction. She’d deliberately displayed her highly developed social skills in order to demonstrate Elizabeth’s relative lack thereof, so he’d turned his eye from Elizabeth—and fixed it on her!
Damn presumptuous male! Why couldn’t he have simply wanted to… to… to have an
She cut off the thought; she had good reason to know she wasn’t the sort of female who inspired men to lust—not real, basic, raw, cannot-do-without-absolutely-must-have lust, only the sort encouraged by other motives, other wants. Like needing an experienced hostess, or an exceptionally well-trained diplomatic bride!
She seemed destined always to be chosen, never wanted. Never truly desired.
And for that—because for the first time in her life Michael had had her believing otherwise—she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him.
Jabbing her needle into the canvas, she fought to calm her nerves.
Apprehension snaked through her; she was very much aware that unless and until he gave up all thought of marrying her she was in danger—more danger than Elizabeth had ever been in.
She’d saved Elizabeth from a loveless political union, but there was no one to save her. If Michael made a formal offer, for the same reasons that would have applied in Elizabeth’s case, it would be even more difficult for her to refuse. As a widow, theoretically she was in charge of her own life, yet she’d lived too long among her peers not to acknowledge that practically speaking, that wasn’t so. If she accepted him, everyone would smile and congratulate her; if she sought to refuse him…
Contemplating the likely outcome did nothing to calm her nerves.
She was sorting through her silks when she heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. Bootsteps—not Geoffrey’s ambling stride but a definite, determined one… her senses leapt. She looked up— just as Michael, attired for riding, appeared in the doorway.
He saw her, briefly glanced at Elizabeth and Edward, who’d looked up in surprise. Without breaking his stride, he directed a nod their way and continued across the room. To her.
She hurriedly gathered her embroidery; he barely gave her time to set it aside before he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet.
He met her gaze. “We need to talk.”
One glance into his eyes, at his set and determined expression, told her arguing was pointless. The way he turned and headed for the door, her hand gripped uncompromisingly tightly in his, underscored that conclusion.
He barely glanced at Edward and Elizabeth. “Do excuse us—we have matters to discuss.”
They were out of the room and he was pacing along the corridor before she’d done more than blink. He was striding too fast; she yanked back on his hand. He flicked her a glance and slowed—a fraction—but his determined progress didn’t stop. Reaching the garden door, he whisked her through. And continued on down the path.
“Where are we going?” She glanced back at the house.
“Where we won’t be disturbed.‘
She looked at him. “And where’s that?”
He didn’t reply, but then they reached the end of the path and he set off across the lawn, and she had her
