twining.
She arched beneath him, her body straining against his; he held her down and drove deeper, harder. Faster as she rose on the crest of that familiar wave, reaching higher, further, until it broke.
With a cry that he drank, she tumbled from the peak into his waiting arms.
Michael caught her, held her close, spread her thighs wider and sank deeper into her scalding heat, driving faster, harder, until her body claimed him and he followed her into sweet oblivion.
Later, he lifted from her; slumping beside her, relaxed, every muscle boneless with sated languor, he realized in the instant before sleep overcame him that his instincts had been right.
This was where he’d needed to spend the night—in Caro’s bed, with her asleep beside him. One arm slung over her waist, he closed his eyes.
And slept.
He had to scramble the next morning to avoid the maids, both at Bramshaw House and the Manor. Returning to Bramshaw as he’d promised at eight o’clock, he found Caro’s traveling carriage waiting in the forecourt, the team between the shafts restless and ready to go.
Unfortunately for them all, while Caro herself was ready, the packing and stowing of her numerous boxes and valises had only just begun. Michael had had his groom drive him over in his curricle, his two cases strapped on behind; directing the two insignificant cases be placed alongside the mountain of Caro’s luggage, he strolled to where she stood on the porch in conference with Catten and her not-so-young Portuguese maid.
Catten bowed in welcome; the maid bobbed, but the glance she threw him was severe.
Caro beamed, which was all he truly cared about.
“As you see”—she gestured to the footmen ferrying her luggage to the carriage—“we’re ready—almost. This should take no more than half an hour.”
He’d expected as much; he returned her smile. “No matter—I need to speak with Edward.”
“He’ll be supervising Elizabeth’s piano practice, I expect.”
With a nod, he turned away. “I’ll find him.”
He did, as predicted in the drawing room. A look summoned Edward from the piano; Elizabeth smiled, but continued to play. Edward joined him as he crossed the drawing room; at his intimation, they walked out onto the terrace.
He halted, but didn’t immediately speak. Edward stopped beside him. “Last-minute instructions?”
Michael glanced at him. “No.” He hesitated, then said, “More in the nature of forward planning.” Before Edward could respond, he went on, “I want to ask you a question to which I would obviously like an answer, but if you feel you can’t, for whatever reason, divulge the information, I will understand.”
Edward was a skilled political aide; his “Oh?” was noncommittal.
Hands sunk in his pockets, Michael looked out over the lawn. “Caro’s relationship with Camden—what was it?”
After Caro’s explanation of her negligees, he had to know.
He’d chosen his words carefully; they revealed nothing specific, yet made clear that he knew what that relationship
Which, of course, raised the question of how he knew.
Silence stretched; he let it. He didn’t expect Edward to reveal any-thing about Caro or Camden readily, yet he hoped Edward would allow for the fact that while Camden was dead, Caro wasn’t.
Eventually, Edward cleared his throat. He, too, looked out over the lawn. “I’m very fond of Caro, as you know…” After a moment, he continued, his tone that of one reporting, “It’s common practice for all pertinent information about an ambassador’s life, including his marriage, to be passed from each ambassadorial aide to his replacement. It’s considered the sort of thing that might, in certain circumstances, be vital to know. When I took up my post in Lisbon, my predecessor informed me that it was common knowledge among the household that Caro and Camden never shared a bed.”
He paused, then went on, “That situation was known to have been the case more or less since their marriage—at least from the time Caro took up residence in Lisbon.” Again he paused, then more reluctantly went on, “The suspicion—and it was never voiced as more than that— was that their marriage might never have been consummated.”
Michael felt Edward’s quick glance, but kept his gaze on the lawn.
After a moment, Edward continued, “Be that as it may, Camden had a mistress throughout the years of his marriage to Caro—just one, a long-term relationship that had existed prior to their wedding. I was told Camden returned to the woman within a month or so of his marriage to Caro.”
Despite his training, Edward hadn’t been able to keep deep disapproval from coloring his words. Frowning as he digested them, Michael eventually asked, “Did Caro know?”
Edward snorted, but there was sadness in the sound. “I’m sure of it. Something like that… she’d never have missed it. Not that she ever let on, not by word or deed.”
A moment passed; Edward shifted, glanced at Michael, then looked away. “As far as I or any of my predecessors knew, Caro never took a lover.”
It explained some things, but raised new questions, ones whose answers it seemed only Caro would know.
They turned back into the drawing room. “You will send for me,” Edward said, “if there’s any trouble in London?”
Michael considered Elizabeth, still engrossed in a concerto. “If you can better serve Caro there than here, I’ll let you know.”
Edward sighed. “You probably know this, but I’ll warn you anyway. Keep a close eye on Caro. She’s totally reliable in many respects, but she doesn’t always recognize danger.”
Michael met Edward’s gaze, then nodded. Elizabeth sounded the last, triumphal chords; smoothly donning his politician’s smile, he crossed to bid her farewell.
They rolled into London in the late afternoon. It was humid; warmth rising from the paved streets, the westering sun reflected from windows, its heat from high stone walls. In late July, the capital was half deserted, many spending the warmer weeks in their country house or farmhouse. The park, host to only a few riders and the occasional carriage, lay like an oasis of green in the surrounding desert of gray and brown stone, yet as the carriage turned into Mayfair, Michael was conscious of a quickening of his pulse—a recognition that they were reentering the political forum, the place where decisions were formulated, influenced, and made.
Politics, as he’d told Caro, ran in his blood.
Beside him, she shifted, straightening, glancing out of the window; with a flash of insight, he realized she, too, reacted to the capital—the seat of government—with a similiar focusing of her attention, a more keenly anticipatory air.
She turned to him. Met his gaze and smiled. “Where should I set you down?”
He held her gaze, then asked, “Where were you planning on staying?”
“At Angela’s in Bedford Square.”
“Is Angela in residence?”
Caro continued to smile. “No—but there’ll be staff there.”
“A skeleton staff?”
“Well, yes—it is the height of summer.”
He looked forward, then said, “I think it would be infinitely wiser for us—both of us—to stay with my grandfather in Upper Grosvenor Street.”
“But—” Caro glanced out as the carriage slowed. She glimpsed a street sign; the carriage was turning into Upper Grosvenor Street. The notion of having been an unwitting accomplice in her own kidnapping assailed her. She looked at Michael. “We cannot simply descend on your grandfather.”
“Of course not.” He sat forward. “I sent a messenger this morning.”
The carriage slowed, then halted. He met her eyes. “I live here while in town, and Magnus rarely leaves—the house is fully staffed. Believe me when I say that both Magnus
