The Ideal Bride (16 page)

 
His smile was devastating. “Asked you to do it, of course.”

 
Ignoring the effect of that smile, she humphed again.

 
His expression turned mock-hurt. “Wouldn’t you have helped me?”

 
She glanced at him, tried to make her look severe. “Possibly. If I was bored. Only I’m not that bored at present, so you should be especially grateful to Muriel.”

 
Before she’d finished speaking, his gaze had turned considering, as if contemplating some different prospect.

 
“Actually, I should probably do something about the area south of Lyndhurst—”

 
“No.” Realizing what tack he was following, her response was instantaneous.

 
He refocused on her face, then tilted his head, a slight frown in his eyes; he seemed more intrigued than rejected. Then his expression eased; straightening, he took her empty plate from her. “We can talk about it later.”

 
“No, we can’t.” She was not going to act as a political or diplomatic hostess for him or any man ever again. In her own right, she might enjoy exercising her true talents, but she would not play that role for any man again.

 
He’d turned away to set their plates on a side table; when he turned back, she was surprised to discover his expression serious, his blue eyes unusually hard, yet his tone when he spoke was calming. “We can, and will, but not here, not now.”

 
For an instant, he held her gaze; she was looking at the real man, not the politician. Then he smiled, and his social mask overlaid that too-determined look; raising his head, he took her arm. “Come and help me with Mrs. Harris. How many children does she have these days?”

 
Reminding herself that despite his occasional lapses into what she classified as “presumptuous male” behavior, she was in good humor with him, she consented to accompany him and speak with Mrs. Harris.

 
And subsequently with a succession of others.

 
When, courtesy of a speculative glance from old Mrs. Tricket, she realized that his liking for her company was raising hares, rather than argue—in her experience a pointless exercise with a presumptuous male—she seized the opportunity of Muriel’s being in the group with whom they were engaged to move to her side and murmur, “Thank you for a very pleasant evening.”

 
Muriel, taking in Michael at her side, currently speaking with Mrs. Ellingham, looked at her in surprise. “You’re leaving?”

 
She smiled. “Indeed. I wanted to mention… I’ve decided to hold a ball on the evening before the fete. There are a number of the diplomatic set presently in the area—I thought if they stay overnight, they can attend the fete the next day, boosting our attendance.‘

 
“Ah.” Muriel blinked. “I see.”

 
She didn’t appear enamored of the notion, but that was almost certainly because she hadn’t thought of it first. Patting her arm, Caro went on, “I left Edward and
 
Elizabeth
 
struggling with the invitations—I must go and do my part. Again, thank you—I’ll send your invitation around tomorrow.”

 
“Thank you.” Muriel nodded, her gaze going past Caro. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s something I must to see to.”

 
They parted. Caro turned to Michael, who had finished with Mrs. Ellingham. She let her smile deepen. “I’m heading home.”

 
She went to draw her hand from his arm and step away, but he moved with her. She paused when they were clear of the group, but he steered her on. Toward the front hall.

 
When she looked at him and let her puzzlement show, he gifted her with a smile she knew wasn’t genuine. “I’ll drive you home.”

 
A statement, not an offer; his tone—determined—was more real than his smile.

 
Her heels struck the hall tiles as she imagined it—driving home on the seat of his curricle, the night dark and balmy about them, his hard, solid body so close to hers… “No, thank you. I prefer to walk.”

 
He halted; they were out of sight of the company in the drawing room. “In case it’s escaped your notice, it’s now full dark outside.”

 
She shrugged. “It’s not as if I don’t know the way.”

 
“It’s what—a hundred yards or so to your gate, and then four hundred or more to the front steps?”

 
“This is Hampshire, not London. There isn’t any danger.”

 
Michael glanced at Muriel’s footman, standing waiting by the door. “Have my carriage brought around.”

 
“Yes, sir.”

 
The footman hurried off to comply. When Michael looked again at Caro, he found she’d narrowed her eyes.

 
“I am not—”

 
“Why are you arguing?”

 
She opened her lips, paused, then lifted her chin. “You haven’t taken your leave of Muriel. I’ll be halfway home by the time you do.”

 
He frowned, recalling. “She went into the dining room.”

 
Caro smiled. “You’ll need to go and find her.”

 
A sound behind them made him glance around. Hedderwick, Muriel’s spouse, had just come out of the library. No doubt he’d been imbibing something stronger than sherry, but was now returning to his wife’s party.

 
“Perfect,” Michael said beneath his breath. He raised his voice. “Hedderwick! Just the man. I need to be on my way, but Muriel’s disappeared. Please convey my thanks for an excellent evening and my apologies for having to leave without thanking her in person.”

 
Hedderwick, a large, rotund man with a round bald head, raised his hand in farewell. “I’ll make your excuses. Good to see you again.” He nodded to Caro, and continued toward the drawing room.

 
Michael faced Caro. Raised a brow. “Any further social hurdles you can see?‘

 
Eyes like silver shards, she opened her lips—

 
“Oh, there you are, Hedderwick—please tell Muriel I enjoyed myself thoroughly, but I have to get back to Reginald. He’ll worry if I don’t return soon.”

 
Hedderwick murmured soothingly, standing back as Miss Trice emerged from the drawing room and came bustling toward Michael and Caro. A gaunt but thoroughly good-natured lady, sister of the local vicar, she’d kept house for him for many years and was an active member of the Ladies’ Association.

 
Her eyes twinkled as she neared. “Thank you, Caro, for making the first move. It’s really very
good
of Muriel to give these little suppers, but some of us do have other calls on our time.”

 
Caro smiled. Miss Trice beamed at Michael and bade them both farewell, barely breaking her stride in her march to the door.

 
The footman swung it open; as Miss Trice went out, the clop of hooves and the crunch of wheels on gravel reached them.

 
“Good.” Michael grasped Caro’s arm. “You can stop arguing. It’s dark. I’m leaving, too. I may as well drive you home—Geoffrey would expect me to.”

 
She looked at him. Despite her calm expression, he could see the exasperation in her eyes. Then she shook her head, gestured as she turned to the door. “Very well!”

 
Feeling entirely justified, he escorted her onto the porch. His curricle stood waiting. As they went down the steps, she muttered something; he thought the words were “Damn presumptuous male!”

 
Having gained what he wished, he ignored them. Taking her hand, he assisted her into the curricle, then gathered the reins and followed. She scooted along the seat, drawing her skirts in so he could sit beside her. He did, then set his matched grays trotting down the short drive.

 
Nose in the air, Caro said, “What about Miss Trice? She’s walking home in the dark, too.”

 
“And the vicarage is what? Fifty yards down the road, with its door at most ten paces from the gate.”

 
He heard a sound suspiciously like a sniff.

 
Decided to poke back. “Could you please explain why you’re being so difficult over me driving you home?”

 
Caro clung to the front of the curricle as he turned his horses into the street. It was a moonless night, black and balmy; he couldn’t see that her knuckles were white. As she’d anticipated, through the turn his weight shifted; his hard thigh pressed against hers—heat flared and sank into her flesh, into her. The curricle straightened; the pressure eased. Yet she remained intensely aware of him, of the hard, masculine neat of him a mere inch away.

 
Predictably, her nerves were in knots, her lungs tight. She’d never been so afflicted in her life.

 
How could she explain what she didn’t understand?

 
She sucked in a breath, and prepared to lie. “It’s just—”

 
She blinked, peered ahead.

 
Shadowy figures were dancing in the darkness along the side of the road. She peered harder.

 
“Good God!” She grabbed Michael’s arm, felt it turn to steel under her fingers. “Look!” She pointed ahead. “Miss Trice!”

 
Two burly figures were struggling with the thin woman; a half-smothered scream reached them.

 
Michael saw. With a cry, he flicked the reins and his horses shot forward.

 
Caro clung to the side of the curricle, eyes locked on the scene ahead. The sudden thunder of hooves erupting out of the black night made the two men look up. She caught a fleeting glimpse of pale faces, then one yelled; they let Miss Trice go and plunged down a narrow path between the vicarage and the next cottage.

 
The path led directly into the forest.

 
Michael hauled on the reins; the curricle stopped, rocking wildly on its springs alongside the crumpled figure of Miss Trice.

 
Caro jumped down without waiting for the curricle to settle. She heard Michael swear as she raced across in front of his horses. As she reached Miss Trice, she was aware of him hauling on the brake, swiftly tying off the reins.

 
Crouching, she put her arm about Miss Trice, who was struggling to sit up. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

 
“No. I—oh!” Miss Trice was still struggling to catch her breath. She leaned against Caro’s arm; Caro didn’t have the strength to lift her.

 
Then Michael was there; he put one arm about Miss Trice, took her hand, and drew her into a sitting position. “It’s all right. They’ve gone.”

 
They all knew there was no point giving chase; at night it would be easy to hide a regiment in the forest.

 
Miss Trice nodded. “I’ll be recovered in a moment. I just need to catch my breath.”

 
They didn’t rush her; eventually, she nodded again. “Right. I can stand now.”

 
Caro stood back and let Michael help Miss Trice to her feet. She swayed, but then caught her balance.