The Ideal Bride (22 page)

 
They’d barely started along the drive when Michael asked, “Why was Leponte so put out that your ball will not be at Sutcliffe Hall?”

 
“I don’t really know. He seems to have developed a fascination for Camden—studying what influences made him what he was.”

 
“Leponte?”

 
Michael fell silent. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his large body on the seat beside her. Even though his thigh was not touching hers, she could sense its heat. As usual, his nearness made her feel peculiarly fragile. Delicate.

 
Finally, he said, “I find that hard to believe.”

 
So did she. She lightly shrugged, and looked out at the shifting shadows of the forest. “Camden was, after all, extremely successful. Regardless of his present employ, I assume Ferdinand will ultimately step into his uncle’s shoes. Perhaps that’s why he’s here—learning more.”

 
Michael humphed and looked ahead. He didn’t trust Leponte, not when it came to Caro, not in any respect; he’d assumed his distrust arose from the obvious source—from those primitive possessive instincts she aroused in him. Now, however, in light of the countess’s and duchess’s behavior, in view of that final moment beside the carriage, he was no longer so certain at least part of his distrust didn’t spring from a more professional reaction.

 
He’d been prepared to accept and manage, even suppress, a distrust that arose from personal emotions; he was a consummate politician after all. Distrust that arose from prickling professional instincts was something else entirely—that could well be too dangerous to ignore, even for a short time.

 
Recognizing a landmark outside, gauging how much time they still had alone in the darkness of the carriage, he glanced at Caro. “What did you and Leponte talk about at table?”

 
She leaned against the plush cushions, through the dimness regarded him. “Initially it was the usual small talk, then he started on his tack as a Camden Sutcliffe accolyte with a detailed overview of Cam-den’s career.”

 
“Accurate, would you say?”

 
“In all respects he touched on, certainly.”

 
He could tell by her tone, by the way she paused, that she was puzzled, too. Before he could prompt, she continued, “Then in the drawing room he asked about Sutcliffe Hall, theorizing that the place must have been significant to Camden.”

 
Through the gloom, he studied her. “Was it?”

 
She shook her head. “I don’t think so—I don’t believe Camden thought so. I never detected any great attachment on his part.”

 
“Hmm.” He settled back, reached out and took her hand. Her fingers fluttered, then quieted; he curled his more firmly around them. “I think”—slowly he lifted her trapped hand to his lips—“that I’ll be keeping an eye on Leponte at the ball, and wherever else we meet him.”

 
She was watching; he could sense the tension spreading through her. Turning his head, through the gloom he caught her gaze. “For a number of excellent reasons.”

 
He placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

 
She watched, then, gaze locked on her hand, drew in a tight breath. An instant passed, then, frowning, she lifted her eyes to his. “What—?”

 
He raised her hand again, lightly brushed his lips over her knuckles, then, eyes on hers, slowly, with the tip of his tongue, he traced them.

 
Her response was immediate and strong. A shudder racked her; she briefly closed her eyes.

 
Before she opened them, he shifted and pulled her to him, his other hand rising to cup and frame her jaw, to angle her face so his lips could cover hers.

 
He was kissing her—and she was kissing him back—before she had a chance to retreat.

 
Releasing her hand, he reached for her, drew her more definitely to him. As before, her hands rose to his chest, tensed as if she would resist; he deepened the kiss, and her resistance never came.

 
Instead… gradually, step by subtle step, he coaxed not just acceptance but willing participation from her. Initially, she seemed to believe that after the first exchange he’d stop—she seemed to be waiting for him to do so. When he didn’t, indeed made it perfectly clear he had no intention of not further indulging, tentatively, hesitantly, she joined him.

 
Her lips were soft, sweet, her mouth pure temptation; when she offered it, he rejoiced, and took, conscious that some part of her mind was watching, puzzled, almost surprised… why he couldn’t imagine.

 
She was a delight, one he savored, stretching out the simple moments as he never had before.

 
He caressed, claimed, then teased, ultimately taunted and got the response—a more fiery, definite, passionate response—that he’d wanted, that he knew she had it in her to give. He wanted that and more—all she had to give—but was tactician enough to realize that with her, each step and stage had to be battled for and won.

 
The Merry Widow was not going to yield so much as one inch without a fight.

 
That, very likely, was why so many had failed with her. They’d assumed they could leap ahead, overlook the preliminaries, and instead had stumbled at the very first hurdle.

 
Kissing her.

 
If, as it seemed, for some mystical reason she’d got it into her head that she was hopeless at kissing… it was difficult to seduce a woman who wasn’t willing to be kissed.

 
Secure in his victory, he drew her closer yet, angled his lips over hers. Her breasts brushed his chest; her arms started to slide over his shoulders, then stopped, tensed.

 
The carriage slowed, then turned into Bramshaw Lane.

 
With a gasp, she pulled back—enough to hiss his name in warning.

 
“
Sssh
.” Inexorably he drew her even deeper into his embrace. “You don’t want to shock your coachman.”

 
Her eyes flew wide. “Wh—”

 
He cut off her shocked question in the most efficient way. They had at least seven more minutes before they reached Bramshaw House; he intended to enjoy every one.

 
Chapter 8

 
Caro woke the next morning determined to regain control of her life. And her senses. Michael seemed intent on seizing both—to what end she didn’t know—however, whatever, she was
not
going to be a party to it.

 
As she had been for the last half of their journey home from Lead-better Hall.

 
Smothering a curse at her newfound susceptibility, at the tangle of curiosity, fascination, and schoolgirlish need that had allowed him to take such liberties and seduced her into participating as she had, she closed her room door, flicked her skirts straight, and headed for the stairs.

 
Breakfast and the fresh slate of a new day would give her all she needed to get her life back on track.

 
Gliding down the stairs, she inwardly grimaced. She was probably overreacting. It had only been a kiss—well, numerous rather warming kisses, but still, that was hardly cause for panic. For all she knew, he might have had enough, and she wouldn’t even need to be on guard.

 
“Ah, there you are, m’dear.” Sitting at the head of the dining table, Geoffrey looked up. He nodded to
 
Elizabeth
 
and Edward, both seated at the table, heads together, poring over a single sheet. “An invitation from the Prussians. They’ve asked me, too, but I’d rather not—other things to do. I’ll leave the giddy dissipation to you.”

 
That last was said with a fond smile that included both her and

 
Elizabeth ; while Geoffrey delighted in his family’s social prominence, since Alice’s death he no longer himself cared for any but the most simple entertainments.

 
Catten held Caro’s chair at the other end of the table; she sat, reached for the teapot with one hand, and imperiously held out the other for the invitation.

 
Edward handed it to her. “An impromptu alfresco luncheon—by which I assume they mean a picnic.”

 
She glanced at the single sheet. “Hmm. Lady Kleber is first cousin to the Grand Duchess, and is something of a figure in her own right.” Lady Kleber had written personally, inviting them to join what she described as “a select company.”

 
There was, of course, no chance of refusing. Quite aside from the discourtesy involved, the general’s wife was only returning Caro’s hospitality; it had been she who had started this round of entertainments with her dinner to rescue Elizabeth .

 
Sipping her tea, she suppressed her frown. There was no point trying to escape the outcome of her own scheming. All she could do was hope, almost certainly in vain, that Michael wasn’t one of Lady Kleber’s selections.

 
“Can we go?” Elizabeth asked, eyes shining, eagerness transparent. “It’s a perfect day.”

 
“Of course we’ll go.” Caro glanced again at the invitation. “Crab-tree House.” To Edward, she explained, “That’s the other side of Eye-worth Wood. It’ll take half an hour by carriage. We should leave at noon.”

 
Edward nodded. “I’ll order the barouche.”

 
Caro nibbled her toast, then finished her tea. They all rose from the table together; once in the hall, they went their separate ways— Geoffrey to his study, Edward to speak with the coachman. Elizabeth went to practice her piano pieces—more, Caro suspected, so Edward would know where to find her and have an excuse to linger than from any desire to improve her playing.

 
The cynical assessment had floated into her mind without conscious thought; it was almost certainly accurate, yet… she shook her head. She was becoming too jaded, too scheming—far too much like Camden in her dealings with the world.

 
Regretfully she dismissed the desperate notion that had blossomed in her mind. There was no situation she could conjure to ensure that Michael would be otherwise engaged for the afternoon. Reblocking the stream was out of the question.

 
They turned into the drive of Crabtree House just after half past twelve. Another carriage was ahead of them; they waited while Ferdinand descended and handed the countess down. Then the carriage rumbled on and theirs took its place before the front steps.

 
Handed down by Edward, Caro went forward, smiling, to greet their hostess. She shook hands with Lady Kleber, answered her polite queries and made Geoffrey’s excuses, then greeted the countess while Elizabeth curtsied and Edward made his bow.

 
“Come, come.‘’ Lady Kleber waved them along the front of the house. ”We will go onto the terrace and be comfortable while we await the others.“

 
Caro strolled beside the countess, engaging in the usual pleasantries. Elizabeth walked with Lady Kleber; Edward and Ferdinand brought up the rear. Glancing back as she gained the terrace, Caro saw Edward explaining something to Ferdinand. She’d been surprised Ferdinand hadn’t sought her attention—clearly he’d remembered Edward had been Camden’s aide.

 
Cynically amused, she followed the countess. Tables and chairs had been set to allow the guests to enjoy the pleasant vista of the semi-formal rear garden ringed by the deeper green of Eyeworth Wood.