the stairs. “We may as well go now, but I’ll have to change.”
He stifled a sigh. “I’ll wait in the library.”
He was reading a treatise on the recent history of Portugal when she opened the library door and looked in. He rose; Magnus glanced up from his own researches, on much the same topic, grunted, and waved them off.
Joining Caro in the corridor, he ran an appreciative eye over the creation she’d selected, a gown in spotted voile of a delicate ice-blue. The vision of ice on a hot summer’s day flashed into his mind; his mouth watered. With a smile, she led the way back to the hall and the front door, transparently oblivious of the effect the sight of her swaying hips, clothed in such fantasy, was having on him.
When she paused by the door Hammer was holding open and, haloed by the sunshine outside, looked back at him, waiting, expectant, he hesitated—for one second toyed with the notion of inveigling her back upstairs… realized she wouldn’t immediately understand, that despite all they’d thus far shared, she didn’t yet truly comprehend the depth of his desire for her. She wouldn’t necessarily react accordingly, not immediately.
Dragging in a breath, forcing his features to relax into an expression of indulgent ease, he reached for her arm./‘The carriage should be waiting.“
It was; he handed her up, then sat beside her as they rattled through the streets. Bond Street wasn’t far; soon they were strolling arm in arm past the fashionable shops. Caro entered only two establishments—one for gloves, one for stockings. He waited on the pavement in both instances, giving mute thanks that she wasn’t one of those females who had to look through every shop she passed.
The street was far less crowded than during the Season. It was pleasant enough to walk along, nodding to this lady and that. The bulk of society was absent, cavorting in the countryside; those of the haut ton presently in town were there because they needed to be—because they were involved in one or other arm of government, or were essential players in some similar sphere.
Caro drew eyes, both male and female. She had a style that was elegant and exclusive—exclusively hers. Today the attention she attracted often resulted in recognition; many of the ladies currently in Bond Street were the more senior hostesses who regarded her as one of their own.
Parting from Lady Holland, the hostess of note they’d encountered, he arched a brow as Caro reclaimed his arm. “Just gloves and stockings?”
She smiled. “It was an obvious opportunity. If we’re to rejoin the pack, then these ladies are the first who need to know.”
“Speaking of obvious opportunities, I forgot to mention”—glancing down, he caught her eyes as she looked up inquiringly—“Honoria asked that I bring you to tea today. I gathered it was to be private—I think, entertainingwise, she’s lying low at present.”
Caro’s face lit. “I haven’t seen her—not to talk to—in years. Not since your parents died. I only glimpsed her a few times this last Season in the ballrooms—we never had a chance to really talk.” She met his eyes. “What’s the time?”
He pulled out his watch, consulted it; she peeked. Slipping it back into his pocket, he looked around. “If we stroll to the corner, then return to the carriage, we can go straight there—our timing will be perfect.”
“Excellent.” Settling her hand on his arm, she stepped out. “Let’s see who else we meet.”
Two more hostesses, then, to their surprise, Muriel Hedderwick appeared in their path.
“Caro.” She directed a nod Caro’s way, then looked at Michael.
He reached for her hand and bowed over it. Muriel returned his polite greeting, then turned to Caro.
“Have you come up for a meeting?” Caro knew Muriel rarely came to town for anything else.
“Indeed,” Muriel replied. “The Older Orphans’ Temperance Society. The inaugural meeting was yesterday. Our aim, of course…” She launched into an impassioned description of the society’s predictable aims.
Michael shifted; Caro pinched his arm. There was no point interrupting; Muriel would say what she would say. Any attempt to distract her would only prolong the exercise.
Muriel’s eloquence finally ended. She fixed her gaze intently on Caro. “We’re holding a steering committee meeting tonight. As you’re now residing in England, I should think it’s the sort of association to which you would wish to devote some of your time. I would most strongly urge you to attend—the meeting will be held at eight o’clock.”
Caro smiled. “Thank you for the invitation—I’ll make every effort to attend.” From experience she knew this was a case in which a simple prevarication worked to everyone’s advantage. If she demurred and said she was already committed elsewhere, Muriel would feel compelled to argue her case until Caro broke down and agreed to attend. She made a mental note to make her excuses when next they met.
She felt Michael’s gaze, pressed his arm to keep him silent. Smiled at Muriel.
Who nodded, as haughty as ever. “We’re meeting at Number Four, Alder Street, just past Aldgate.”
Michael inwardly frowned; he glanced at Caro—she wouldn’t know London all that well, not beyond the fashionable areas.
She confirmed that by smiling and inclining her head. “I’ll hope to meet you and the rest of your committee there.”
“Good.” With another firm nod and a regal glance his way, Muriel made her good-byes.
He suppressed an impulse to tell her that if she was going to Aldgate, she should take a footman—a burly one—with her; Muriel would consider the comment unforgivably presumptuous.
He waited until she was out of earshot to murmur, “You’re not attending any meeting near Aldgate.”
“Of course not.” Caro retook his arm; they strolled on. “I’m sure the steering committee is full of eager and interested members—they’ll manage perfectly well without me. But Muriel’s obsessed with her societies and associations—she doesn’t seem to appreciate that others aren’t as interested, at least not to the same extent as she.” She smiled up at him. “But each to her own.”
He met her gaze. “In that case, let’s go to tea.”
Much more frivolous than a temperance society meeting—also much more relaxing.
They sat not in the formal drawing room but in a beautiful sitting room that gave onto the back terrace of the mansion in Grosvenor Square, drank tea, consumed cakes and scones, and caught up with the past.
Within seconds of taking Honoria’s hands and being pulled into a warm embrace, Caro felt as if the years had, if not fallen from them, then been bridged. Honoria was three years older than she; throughout childhood they’d been firm friends. But then Honoria and Michael’s parents had been killed in a tragic accident; the event had parted Caro and Honoria, not only physically.
They had been—still were, Caro suspected—alike in many ways; if Honoria had been and still was the more assertive, she was the more assured, the more confident in herself.
She had remained in Hampshire, the much-loved youngest daughter of the happy household at Bramshaw House—until she’d been swept off her feet into her marriage with Camden. While Honoria had been very much alone, she, catapulted into the highest echelons of society, had been wrestling with hostessly demands that had initially been well beyond her years. She had coped; so had Honoria.
While Honoria glossed over the years she’d spent with distant relatives in the shires, virtually alone in the world but for Michael, Caro was quite sure those years had left their mark, as the accident itself must have done. Now, however, there was not the faintest vestige of cloud to be found in Honoria’s eyes; her life was full, rich, and transparently satisfying.
She had married Devil Cynster.
Over the rim of her cup, Caro glanced at the lounging presence talking with Michael; they had taken chairs opposite the chaise where she and Honoria sat. It was the first time she had seen Devil beyond a glimpse.
Within the ton, the name Cynster was synonymous with a certain type of gentleman, with a certain type of wife. And while Honoria certainly fitted the mold of a Cynster wife, Devil Cynster, from all she could see and all she had heard, was the epitome of the Cynster male.
He was large, lean, harsh featured. There was very little softness about him; even his eyes, large, heavy lidded, a curious shade of pale green, seemed crystalline, his glance hard and sharp. Yet Caro noted that every time his eyes rested on Honoria, they softened; even the austere lines of his face, of his lean lips, seemed to ease.
Power was his—he’d been born to it, not just physically but in every imaginable way. And he used it; that Caro knew beyond doubt. Yet talking to Honoria, sensing the deep, almost startlingly vibrant connection carried in shared glances, in the light touch of a hand, she sensed—could almost feel—that another power ruled here. That just as Honoria seemed to have surrendered to it, so, too, had Devil.
