The Ideal Bride (19 page)

 
After that first, brief, uncertain response, she stopped—waited. He realized she was waiting for him to break the kiss, raise his head, and let her go. He debated for a heartbeat, then, moving slowly, angled his head and increased the pressure of his lips on hers. If he let her go too soon… he was politician enough to see the danger.

 
So he teased and cajoled, used every wile he possessed to draw a response again from her. Her hands shifted, restless, on his chest, then she gripped his lapels and abruptly kissed him back, more firmly, more definitely. A real kiss.

 
Got
you
.

 
He swooped and returned the caress, quickly engaged her in a real exchange—kiss for kiss, sliding, tempting pressure for pressure. While she was distracted, he eased his fingers, and slowly slid his hands around, loosely—carefully—taking her in his arms. He wanted her there, secure, before he let her escape from the kiss.

 
Caro’s head was starting to swim. Quite how she’d got trapped into this strange kissing game she didn’t know. She couldn’t kiss—she was perfectly aware of that—yet here she was, leaning against his chest, her lips beneath his… kissing him.

 
She should stop. Some panicky little voice kept telling her she should, that she’d regret it if she didn’t, yet she’d never been kissed like this before—so gently, so… temptingly, as if her response was something he actually wanted.

 
It was strange. Of the others who’d pursued her, few had ever got close enough to steal a kiss. The handful that had had wanted to devour her; her revulsion had been immediate and ingrained—she’d never questioned it, never felt the need to.

 
Yet now, here, in the safety of her childhood home with Michael… was it simply that combination of the familiar that had failed to trigger her usual reaction, that instead had left her open to…

 
This strange and intoxicating exchange.

 
This tempting and beguiling exchange.

 
Just how tempting, how intoxicating, how thoroughly beguiling she learned a moment later, when fraction by fraction he slowly drew back, until their lips parted and he lifted his head. Not far, just an inch or so; enough for her to raise her lids and look into the bright blue of his eyes half hidden behind the tracery of his lashes. Just enough for her to draw in a quick breath, and realize his arms were around her—not crushing her or mauling her, yet trapping her all the same.

 
Enough for her to experience a rush of pure impulse—crazy and thrilling and wholly wanton—that had her pressing closer, stretching up, and touching her lips once again to his.

 
In the instant she did, she sensed his pleasure. A definite masculine gloat that he’d tempted her so far.

 
What was she doing?

 
Before she could pull back, he tightened his arms about her, held her close as he took over, and kissed her again.

 
Slow, easy, a warm and confident caress. His tongue touched her lips, traced, tantalized… she parted them, tentatively, curious… not even truly sure it was by her own will and not his.

 
His tongue traced the soft inner faces of her lips, not so much bold as assured, certain. Then he probed further, found her tongue and stroked, caressed…

 
Warmth seeped through her, unraveling her tensed nerves, soothing and smoothing away her hesitations, her uncertainties, her fears…

 
Michael felt her relax, felt the last of her coldness melt away. Grappled with his desire to take more, to press further, to claim, caged it so artfully she wouldn’t know it was there. Regardless of how experienced his rational mind told him she had to be, his instincts knew better than to scare her—to at this stage give her any excuse to flee.

 
It was he who called an end to the engagement; he was gratified that that was so—she was so caught, now so involved in the pleasurable exchange that returning to the real world—the world in which she was the virtuous Merry Widow—had temporarily lost all appeal.

 
Drawing back, feeling their lips part, hearing the soft exhalation she gave as they did, he had to fight to hide his triumph.

 
He let her ease back, steadied her within his arms until she was firm on her feet. She blinked and her eyes met his. A frown came to life, slowly grew until it shadowed the silvery depths of her gaze.

 
Then she blushed, glanced away and stepped back—remembered she couldn’t and stepped to the side. He let his arms fall, turned with her, trying to read her face, wanting to know…

 
Caro sensed his gaze, forced herself to halt, draw in a huge breath, and meet it. She frowned, warningly, at him. “So now you know.”

 
He blinked. A second passed. “Know what?”

 
Looking ahead, nose in the air, she headed for the summerhouse’s door. “That I can’t kiss.” It was imperative she bring this interlude to a rapid end.

 
Naturally, he kept pace, falling in, strolling easily beside her. “So what was it we were doing just now?”

 
He sounded faintly puzzled, also faintly amused.

 
“By your standards, not a lot, I imagine. I don’t know how to kiss.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m no good at it.”

 
They descended the steps and set off across the lawn. Head up, she walked as fast as she reasonably could. “I daresay Geoffrey will be back by now—”

 
“Caro.”

 
The single word held a wealth of, not just feeling, but beguiling promise.

 
Her heart leapt to her throat; determinedly, she swallowed it. The man was a consummate politician—she shouldn’t forget that. Please—spare me your sympathy.“

 
“No.”

 
She halted, turned to stare at him. “What?”

 
He met her eyes. “No, I won’t spare you—I fully intend to teach you. His lips curved; his gaze dropped to hers. ”You’re perfectly teachable, you know.“

 
No, I’m not, and anyway…“ Anyway what?

 
“Never mind.”

 
He laughed. “But I do mind. And I am going to teach you. To kiss, and more.”

 
She humphed, shot him another, more dire, warning glance, and walked on even faster. Muttered beneath her breath. “Damn presumptuous male.”

 
“What was that?” He strolled patiently beside her.

 
“I told you—never mind.”

 
On reaching the house, she discovered Geoffrey had just returned; with immense relief, she all but bundled Michael into his presence and escaped.

 
To her room. To sink down on her bed and try to work out what had happened. That Michael had kissed her—that he’d wanted to and managed to—was strange enough, but why had she kissed him back?

 
Mortification washed over her; rising, she went to the washstand, poured cold water from the ewer into the basin, and washed her warm face. Patting her cheeks dry, she remembered, heard again his gently amused tone. He’d said he’d teach her, but he wouldn’t of course. He’d only said that to gloss over the awkward moment.

 
She returned to the bed, sinking down on the edge. Her pulse was still galloping, her nerves in a tangle, yet the knot was not one she recognized.

 
The shadows progressed across the floor while she tried to make sense of what had occurred, and even more what she’d felt.

 
When the gong for luncheon rang through the house, she blinked and looked up—in the mirror of her dressing table across the room, she saw her face, her expression soft, her fingers lightly tracing her lips.

 
With a muttered curse, she lowered her hand, stood, shook out her skirts, and headed for the door.

 
Chapter 7

 
She would avoid him henceforth; it was the only viable solution. She certainly was not going to spend her time imagining what learning to kiss under his tutelage would be like.

 
She had a ball to organize and lots of guests to house—more than enough to keep her busy.

 
And that evening she had a dinner to attend at Leadbetter Hall, where the Portuguese delegation was spending the summer.

 
Leadbetter Hall was near Lyndhurst. The invitation had not included Edward; in the circumstances, that wasn’t surprising. She’d ordered the carriage for seven-thirty; a few minutes past the appointed time, she left her room suitably gowned and coiffed, her rose magenta silk gown draped to perfection, cut to make the most of her less-than-impressive bosom. A long strand of pearls interspersed with amethysts circled her throat once before hanging to her waist. Pearl and amethyst drops dangled from her ears; the same jewels adorned the gold filigree comb that anchored the mass of her unruly hair.

 
That hair, thick, springy, and all but impossible to tame—to make conform to any fashionable style—had been the bane of her existence until a supremely haughty but well-disposed archduchess had advised her to stop trying to fight a battle destined to be lost, and instead embrace the inevitable as a mark of individuality.

 
The acerbic recommendation had not immediately changed her view, but gradually she’d realized that the person most bothered by her hair was herself, and if she stopped agonizing over it and instead took its oddity in her stride—even embraced it as the archduchess had suggested—then others were, indeed, inclined to see it simply as a part of her uniqueness.

 
Now, if truth be told, the relative uniqueness of her appearance buoyed her; the individuality was something she clung to. Gliding to the stairs, hearing her skirts sussurating about her, reassured that she looked well, she put a gloved hand to the balustrade and started down.

 
Her gaze lowered to the front hall, to where Catten stood waiting to open the front door. Serenely, she glided down the last flight—a well-shaped head of dark brown locks atop a pair of broad shoulders, elegantly clad, came into view in the corridor running alongside the stairs. Then Michael turned, looked up, and saw her.

 
She slowed; taking in his attire, she inwardly cursed. But there was nothing she could do; returning his smile, she continued her descent. He strolled to the bottom of the stairs to meet her, offered his hand as she neared.

 
“Good evening.” She kept her smile plastered in place as she surrendered her fingers to his strong clasp. “I take it you, too, have been invited to dine at Leadbetter Hall?”

 
His eyes held hers. “Indeed. I thought, in the circumstances, I might share your carriage.”

 
Geoffrey had followed Michael from the study. “An excellent idea, especially with those scoundrels who attacked Miss Trice still at large.”

 
She raised her brows. “I hardly think they’d attack a carriage.”

 
“Who’s to say?” Geoffrey exchanged a distinctly masculine glance with Michael. “Regardless, it’s only sensible that Michael escort you.”

 
That, unfortunately, was impossible to argue. Resigning herself to the inevitable—and really, despite the silly expectation tightening her nerves, what had she to fear?—she smiled diplomatically and inclined her head. “Indeed.” She lifted a brow at Michael. “Are you ready?”