Chapter 11
Michael rose early the next morning. He tried to immerse himself in catching up with the London news, reading the news sheets and letters from various correspondents, but time and again he caught himself sitting in his armchair, booted ankle propped on one knee, his gaze fixed before him—thinking of Caro.
She’d spoken of hurdles she didn’t mean to place before him, and then revealed one gigantic, triple-bar water jump that, unintended or not, he was going to have to find some way to clear.
Camden had married her for her talents, her undeniable skills. From what he knew of Camden, that came as no surprise; if any man had known which innate abilities were required to produce a topnotch hostess, and been able to recognize them in a raw young lady of seventeen, Camden had been that man. He’d already buried two highly talented wives.
That, however, wasn’t the problem. Caro hadn’t understood, had thought he’d been marrying her for other reasons, presumably the usual romantic reasons young ladies dreamed of, and Camden—
Michael gritted his teeth, but had no difficulty imagining the Camden he’d known and heard so much about deploying his charm and glittering, multifaceted personality to dazzle a young lady he’d wanted for his own. Oh, yes, he would have done it, knowingly led her up the garden path, let her think what she would—anything to gain what he’d wanted.
He’d wanted Caro, and got her.
But to her, it had all been under false pretenses.
That was what had wounded her, scarred her; the spot was still tender, even after all these years.
Just how tender, he’d seen for himself; he wouldn’t willingly prod that point anew. He didn’t, however, regret doing so. If he hadn’t… at least he now knew what he faced.
Given that she was fully cognizant of his own urgent and very real need for just such a wife as Camden had wanted, just the sort of talented female she herself was, getting her to agree to marry him was going to be an uphill slog.
And that’s where the gigantic, triple-bar water jump stood—not in the way of getting her into his bed, but between him and his ultimate goal.
He pondered that, then decided it lay too far ahead—who knew what might happen between then and now? Perhaps another, clearer route to marriage would open up, and he wouldn’t need to front that gigantic, triple-bar water jump after all.
His plans were sound; one step at a time—secure one goal before moving on to take the next.
Leaving the subject, setting it aside, he tried to concentrate on his aunt Harriet’s latest letter. He read one more paragraph before his mind wandered… to Caro.
Stifling a curse, he folded the letter and tossed it on the pile on his desk. Five minutes later, he was on Atlas’s back, cantering toward Bramshaw.
Wisdom insisted that the day of a ball—and despite what he’d said, Caro’s Midsummer Revels, attended by so many diplomatic personages, would be no minor event—was not the time to call on any lady. If he had any sense, he would have done as he’d planned and played least in sight. Yet here he was…
He decided that, aside from all else, it would be unfair to leave Edward to watch over Caro on his own. Geoffrey would doubtless have taken refuge in his study and would not be seen until dinner, so someone should be there who had some chance of reining Caro in, should that prove necessary.
He found her on the terrace, directing the placement of tables and chairs on the lawns below. Absorbed with waving two footmen carrying a table further to the right, she didn’t realize he was there until he slid his hands around her waist and lightly squeezed.
“Oh—hello.” She glanced distractedly up and back at him, slightly breathless.
He grinned down at her, let his hands drift down, lightly caressing her hips. The small army on the lawn below couldn’t see.
She frowned—sternly warning. “Have you come to help?”
He sighed, resigned, and nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
Fatal words, as he quickly discovered; she had a list of errands as long as his arm. The first she shot his way involved moving furniture in and out of the reception rooms; some pieces had to be temporarily lodged in various other places. While the footmen struggled with sideboards and larger pieces, he, along with Edward and Elizabeth, was detailed to see to the lamps, mirrors, and other awkward but delicate and valuable items. Some needed to be removed, others repositioned. The next hour flew.
Once she was satisfied with the dispositions within doors, Caro returned outside. A marquee had to be erected to one side of the lawn; Michael exchanged a glance with Edward and they quickly volunteered. Better that than lug urns and heavy pots about the terrace and along the walks.
Elizabeth said she’d help. The canvas of the marquee lay folded at the edge of the lawn along with the clutter of its poles, guy ropes, and the stakes to anchor them. Between the three of them—Caro was off overseeing something else—they got the canvas laid out, then came their less-than-successful attempts to get the poles in position and hoist the canvas aloft. The marquee was hexagonal, not square—as they quickly learned, a much more difficult proposition.
Eventually, Michael got one corner aloft. Holding the pole steady, he nodded at Edward. “See if you can get the central pole up.”
Edward, by now in his shirtsleeves, eyed the mass of canvas, nodded once, grimly, and dived beneath. He had to fight his way through the folds.
Within seconds, he was lost. A series of poorly suppressed curses floated out from beneath the heaving canvas. Elizabeth, barely able to contain her laughter, called, “Wait—I’ll help.”
She, too, dove under the canvas.
Michael watched, indulgent and amused, leaning against the pole he was propping up.
“What
Hands rising to her hips, she glared. Muttered beneath her breath, “We don’t have time for this nonsense.”
Reaching out, he caught her around the waist; before she could protest, he tugged her to him. She landed against him, hands to his chest; the pole wobbled but he managed to keep it upright.
She caught her breath, looked up at him; he looked deep into her eyes, all but saw her wits marshaling a blistering reproof even while her senses danced a giddy jig. She blinked, fumbling to get her tongue to deliver the protest her brain had formed.
He smiled, watched her gaze fix on his lips. “Let them have their moment—it’s not going to upset your schedule.” He was about to add, “Don’t you remember what it was like to be that young?” meaning that young and in the throes of first love; he remembered just in time that Caro almost certainly didn’t remember, because almost certainly she’d never known…
Bending his head, he kissed her, at first gently, until their lips melded, then with increasing passion. Theirs was not a young love, but a more mature engagement; the kiss reflected that, rapidly deepening.
The wall of canvas screened them from the myriad others hurrying about the lawns and gardens. Edward and Elizabeth were still struggling beneath the marquee.
Michael lifted his head the instant before Elizabeth emerged, shaking her skirts and valiantly stifling giggles. He released Caro as soon as he was sure she was steady on her feet.
Elizabeth saw his arm sliding from around Caro’s waist; her eyes widened, sudden understanding writ large in her face.
Caro saw it; in an uncharacteristic fluster, she flapped her hands at Elizabeth—Edward was still under the marquee. “Do hurry up! We have to get this done.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Edward’s got the central pole in place, ready to hoist.”
“Good.” Stepping out quickly, back toward the house, Caro nodded. “Carry on!”
