The Ideal Bride

Chapter 10

The following afternoon, Caro sat in the window seat of the back parlor and embroidered, while across the room Edward and Elizabeth played chess.

She was not good company; she’d spent all morning trying to distract herself with plans for the fete, now only three days away, but she remained upset and angry.

Angry with herself, angry with Michael.

She should have foreseen his direction. She’d deliberately displayed her highly developed social skills in order to demonstrate Elizabeth’s relative lack thereof, so he’d turned his eye from Elizabeth—and fixed it on her!

Damn presumptuous male! Why couldn’t he have simply wanted to… to… to have an affair and all that entailed? Wasn’t she—?

She cut off the thought; she had good reason to know she wasn’t the sort of female who inspired men to lust—not real, basic, raw, cannot-do-without-absolutely-must-have lust, only the sort encouraged by other motives, other wants. Like needing an experienced hostess, or an exceptionally well-trained diplomatic bride!

She seemed destined always to be chosen, never wanted. Never truly desired.

And for that—because for the first time in her life Michael had had her believing otherwise—she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him.

Jabbing her needle into the canvas, she fought to calm her nerves.

Apprehension snaked through her; she was very much aware that unless and until he gave up all thought of marrying her she was in danger—more danger than Elizabeth had ever been in.

She’d saved Elizabeth from a loveless political union, but there was no one to save her. If Michael made a formal offer, for the same reasons that would have applied in Elizabeth’s case, it would be even more difficult for her to refuse. As a widow, theoretically she was in charge of her own life, yet she’d lived too long among her peers not to acknowledge that practically speaking, that wasn’t so. If she accepted him, everyone would smile and congratulate her; if she sought to refuse him…

Contemplating the likely outcome did nothing to calm her nerves.

She was sorting through her silks when she heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. Bootsteps—not Geoffrey’s ambling stride but a definite, determined one… her senses leapt. She looked up— just as Michael, attired for riding, appeared in the doorway.

He saw her, briefly glanced at Elizabeth and Edward, who’d looked up in surprise. Without breaking his stride, he directed a nod their way and continued across the room. To her.

She hurriedly gathered her embroidery; he barely gave her time to set it aside before he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet.

He met her gaze. “We need to talk.”

One glance into his eyes, at his set and determined expression, told her arguing was pointless. The way he turned and headed for the door, her hand gripped uncompromisingly tightly in his, underscored that conclusion.

He barely glanced at Edward and Elizabeth. “Do excuse us—we have matters to discuss.”

They were out of the room and he was pacing along the corridor before she’d done more than blink. He was striding too fast; she yanked back on his hand. He flicked her a glance and slowed—a fraction—but his determined progress didn’t stop. Reaching the garden door, he whisked her through. And continued on down the path.

“Where are we going?” She glanced back at the house.

“Where we won’t be disturbed.‘

She looked at him. “And where’s that?”

He didn’t reply, but then they reached the end of the path and he set off across the lawn, and she had her answer. The summerhouse.

She pulled back on his hand. “If Elizabeth and Edward look out of the window, they’ll see us.”

“Will they be able to see us once we’re inside?”

“No, but—”

“Then why are you arguing?” He glanced at her; his gaze was hard. “We have unfinished business and that’s the obvious place to conclude it. If, however, you’d rather we pursued our ‘discussion’ in the middle of the lawn… ?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Looked ahead at the summerhouse, rapidly nearing. Muttered sotto voce, “Damn presumptuous male!”

“What was that?”

“Never mind!” She waved toward the summerhouse. “In there, then, if you’re so set on it.”

Lifting her skirts, she climbed the steps beside him. If he was annoyed, as he seemed to be, then she was even more so. She’d never been one to brangle, but in this case she’d make an exception.

Her heels tapped imperiously as she and Michael crossed the wooden floor, heading to where they’d stood last night.

He stopped two yards from the bench, whirled her to face him, released her hand, raised his and framed her face—and kissed her.

Witless.

It was an assault plain and simple, but one her greedy senses leapt to meet; she grabbed hold of his coat to steady herself, to anchor herself in the giddy melee, the whirlpool of desire—hungry, ravenous, and hot—that he unleashed and sent raging. Through them both.

She drank it in, gasping as her senses exulted. As a hunger of her own rose in response.

He deepened the kiss and she was with him, mouths melding, tongues tangling, almost desperate in their need to touch, to take—to be with the other like this, on this otherworldly plane.

Michael knew he had her, that this at least she couldn’t deny. Spreading the fingers of one hand, he speared them deeper into the fine, frizzy wonder of her hair, holding her head steady while he ravaged her mouth; his other hand he sent sliding about her waist, then he drew her to him, steady inch by inch, until she was locked against him.

The contact, breasts to chest, hips to thighs, eased one facet of his driving need, only to escalate another. Determinedly, he reined it in, promising himself that it wouldn’t be for long.

It took effort to draw back, eventually to break the kiss, raise his head, and say, “That unfinished business… ?”

Her lashes fluttered; her lids rose. It took a moment—a moment he savored—before understanding swam into her eyes. She refocused on his, studied his face. “What did you want to discuss?‘

He held her gaze. He had to get it right, had to walk a tightrope and not overbalance. “You said if you could choose, you’d choose an affair.” He paused, then continued, his tone hardening, “If that’s all you’re offering, I’ll take it.”

Her eyes narrowed fractionally; she was practiced at hiding her emotions—he couldn’t see past the beaten silver of her eyes. “You mean you’ll forget all about marrying me, and we can just…”

“Be lovers. If that’s what you wish”—he shrugged lightly—“so be it.”

Again, he sensed rather than saw her suspicions. “You need to marry, but you accept I won’t be your bride? You won’t press me—won’t make an offer, or talk to Geoffrey or anyone else?”

He shook his head. “No offer, no maneuvering. However”—he caught the flash of cynical disbelief in her eyes, had already decided how to counter it—“just so we understand each other completely, beyond misconstruction, if you change your mind at any time, I remain perfectly willing to marry you.”

She frowned; holding her gaze, he went on, “My proposal stands— it stays on the table between us, but between us alone. If at any time you decide you wish to accept it, all you need do is say so. The decision’s yours, totally in your hands, yours alone to make.”

Caro understood what he was saying, understood not only the meaning of the words but the decision behind them. She felt mentally rocked; again the ground had shifted beneath her feet. This was something she hadn’t, never would have, expected. She could barely take it in. Yet…

“Why?” She had to ask, had to know.

He held her gaze steadily, unwaveringly; his expression, hard, determined, if anything grew harder. “If setting aside my wish to marry you is the only way I’ll get you into my bed, then I’ll do it—even that.”

She knew truth when she heard it; his words held its ring. He knew what he was saying, and meant every word.

Her heart stilled, then swelled, soared… the impossible seemed possible again.

Captured by the prospect, by the sudden blossoming of hope, she paused. He raised an impatient brow. “Well?” She refocused and he baldly asked, “Will you have an affair with me?”

Trapped in the blue of his eyes, she again felt as if her world had tilted. Opportunity beckoned; fate tempted her not only with her most closely held dreams but also with her most deeply felt fears—and the chance to vanquish them. Fears that had held her in their cold, dead grip for the past eleven years, fears she’d never before believed she might challenge… not until the last few days.

Not until he’d come into her life and made her feel alive. Made her feel desired.

She felt giddy; a faint buzzing filled her ears. Over it, she heard herself say, quite distinctly, “Yes.”

Two heartbeats passed, then she stepped toward him. He reached for her; hands slid—his about her waist, hers over his shoulders. He bent his head; she stretched up—

“Caro!”

Edward. They froze.

“Caro?” He was on the lawn, heading their way.

Michael exhaled through clenched teeth. “Campbell better have a damn good reason for calling you.”

“He will have.”

They stepped apart, turned to cross to the entrance; they were still within the summerhouse’s shadows when Michael, close behind her, leaned down and whispered, “One thing.” His hands closed about her waist, slowing her—reminding her he could draw her back if he wished. “We’re now having an affair, so when I say ‘Come with me,’ you’ll do just that, without argument. Agreed?”

If she wanted to go forward and learn what truly was possible between them, she had no real choice. She nodded. “Agreed.”

His hands fell from her; he was at her heels as she hurried to the top of the steps.

“Caro?” Edward reached the steps as they appeared at the top. “Oh—there you are.”

“What’s happened?” Lifting her skirts, she went quickly down.

Edward glanced at Michael, following her, grimaced and looked back at her. “George Sutcliffe’s here with Muriel Hedderwick. They’re asking for you—it seems there was a burglary at Sutclif fe Hall last night.

They hurried to the drawing room where George, Camden’s younger brother, sat waiting in an armchair.

Where Camden had been handsome to the grave, George, considerably his junior, about sixty now, had never laid claim to that adjective. He was not as clever as Camden, either. As the brothers had grown older, they’d grown less and less alike; there remained a superficial physical resemblance, but otherwise two more different men would be hard to imagine. George was now a dour, reclusive, rather cheerless widower; his only interests seemed to lie in his acres, and in his two sons and their sons.

Camden had died without heirs, so Sutcliffe Hall had passed to George. His elder son, David, and his wife and young family lived there, too; it was a large, classically impressive but rather cold house. Although no longer residing there, Muriel, George’s daughter, still considered the Hall her real home; it was no surprise that she was present.

George looked up as Caro entered. He nodded. “Caro.” He started to struggle up; she smiled, welcoming and reassuring, and waved him back.

“George.” Pausing by his chair, she pressed his hand warmly, then nodded to Muriel, perched on the chaise. “Muriel.”

While George and Muriel exchanged greetings with Michael, Caro joined Muriel on the chaise. Edward retreated to stand by the wall. As Michael lifted a straight-backed chair to join the circle, Caro fixed her gaze on George. “Edward mentioned a burglary—what’s happened?‘

“Sometime last night, under cover of the storm, someone broke into the sitting room at the end of the west wing.”

During Camden’s lifetime, the rooms in the west wing had been his, left untouched while he was absent, always ready for the few scattered weeks when he returned to his home. Suppressing a frown, Caro listened while George recounted how his grandsons had discovered a forced window, and described the signs that suggested whoever had entered had searched the rooms thoroughly. However, as far as they could tell, only a few knickknacks, none valuable, had been taken.

Muriel broke in. “They must have been after something of Camden’s, something he’d left there.”

George snorted. “More likely passing vagabonds—came in looking for shelter and picked the place over while they were about it. No seri-ous harm done, but I did wonder if it might have been those two who attacked Miss Trice.” He looked at Geoffrey. “Thought I’d put you on your guard.”

Caro glanced at Michael.

Muriel all but snorted. “I think it most likely was something of Camden’s they were after—that’s why I insisted we see you.” She appealed to Caro. “What of his things left at the Hall would be of interest to others?”

Looking into Muriel’s dark, slightly protruberant eyes, Caro wondered if she’d heard of Ferdinand’s interest. “No,” she said, her tone leaving no scope for argument. “There’s nothing of Camden’s, nothing valuable, left at the Hall.”

She glanced at Edward, wordlessly warning him not to support or elaborate. Camden had never viewed the Hall, buried in rural Hampshire, as any real base of his. She and Edward knew her statement was absolutely true, but it was a truth few others were likely to know or guess. Muriel clearly hadn’t; it would hardly be surprising if Ferdinand believed Camden’s personal papers remained in his rooms at the Hall, his ancestral home.

Muriel frowned, unhappy with her answer, yet with little choice but to grudgingly accept it.

Caro had Edward ring for tea. Over their cups, George, Michael, and Geoffrey discussed crops, weather, and yields; she determinedly steered Muriel’s thoughts to the fete, inquiring as to the numerous stalls, refreshments, and entertainments that were all coming together under Muriel’s eagle eye.

Tea consumed, Muriel and George took their leave. Geoffrey retreated to his study; Caro, with Michael and Edward in train, made for the parlor.

Elizabeth had had her own tea tray brought in; she set down her cup and the novel she’d been reading as Caro entered. “I heard Muriel’s voice.” She grimaced. “I assumed if you needed me, you’d send for me.”

Caro waved. “Of course.” She sat on the chaise, fixed her gaze on Michael as he lounged in the armchair opposite; Edward perched on the arm of the other chair. “Those two weaselly men we saw Ferdinand speaking with in the forest. Do you think…?”

Edward frowned. “What two men?”

Michael explained. Edward shot a concerned glance at Caro. “You think Ferdinand hired them to burgle Sutcliffe Hall?”

“I think,” Michael broke in decisively, “that we’re getting ahead of ourselves. While I agree that Ferdinand, with his sudden interest in Camden’s papers, having a clandestine meeting with two men whom neither Caro nor I recognized but who certainly looked like thieves, and Sutcliffe Hall being burgled two nights later, is suggestive, it’s hardly proof. Indeed, it could have been as George suggested—vagabonds seeking shelter from the storm.”

He looked at Caro. “The end of the Hall’s west wing is the most isolated part of the house, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Camden liked it for that reason—the others in the house didn’t disturb him.”

“Exactly. And the forest encroaches on that side, so if any vagabonds were looking for a refuge, it’s the most likely place they’d enter.”

Caro pulled a face. “You’re saying it could just be coincidence.”

He nodded. “I’m hardly a Leponte supporter, but there’s insufficient evidence to charge the break-in to his account.”

“But we can keep a closer eye on him.” Edward’s tone had hardened.

Michael met his gaze. “Indeed. Regardless of our lack of proof in this instance, I definitely think that would be wise.”

Michael and Edward spent the next half hour discussing possibilities; they settled on alerting the Bramshaw House staff to watch for any intruders, citing the burglary at Sutcliffe Hall as the cause of their concern.

“Leadbetter Hall is too far away to mount a meaningful watch directly on Leponte.” Michael grimaced. “And with the fete and the ball in the offing, there are too many easily constructed reasons for him to be out and about around Bramshaw anyway. Short of alerting half the county, there’s not much more we can do.”

Edward nodded. “The ball will be his best chance to search here, don’t you think?”

“Yes—we’ll have to make sure he’s watched at all times.”

Caro listened, agreed when appealed to, but otherwise held her tongue; she had enough to do organizing her ball without worrying about Ferdinand. Besides, it was clear she could leave that to Michael and Edward.

The sun was sinking behind the trees when Michael rose. She rose, too, watched while he took his leave of Elizabeth and Edward; when he turned to her, she gave him her hand and an easy smile. “Good-bye.”

Discussion of the ball had reminded her just how much there was yet to do, to organize, supervise, and manage. Regardless of their decision to embark on an affair, she did not need further distraction just now.

He held her hand, held her gaze, then raised her fingers and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “I’ll call on you tomorrow afternoon.”

She turned with him to the door; he still held her fingers. “Tomorrow will be very busy.” She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “There’s a great deal we have to do with both the preparations for the ball and our contribution to the fete.”

Pausing at the door, he looked down at her. “Nevertheless, I’ll be here midafternoon.” The words were a promise, underscored by the weight of his gaze. He again raised her fingers; his eyes on hers, he kissed them, then released her. “Look for me then.”

With a nod and that same intent look, he left.

She stood in the doorway listening to his retreating footsteps, and wondered… in agreeing to an affair, just what had she agreed to?

The question resonated in her mind the following afternoon when she stood on the terrace, hands on her hips, and glared at Michael.

She opened her mouth—

He pointed a finger at her nose. “Without argument. Remember?”

She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss through teeth unbecomingly clenched. “I—”

“You have precisely five minutes to change into your riding habit. I’ll meet you on the front steps with the horses.”

With that, he turned, went down the terrace steps, and strode away toward the stables—leaving her with her mouth open… and a sneaking suspicion she had no alternative but to fall in with his plans.

She’d never been so dictated to in her life!

Swinging around, muttering dire imprecations against males, all males, presumptuous or otherwise, she whipped off her apron, swung through the kitchens to check with Cook and Mrs. Judson, then hurried upstairs. Ten minutes later, after remembering and delivering the instructions she’d been on her way to give when the sight of Michael striding purposefully up to the house had distracted her, she hurried into the front hall.

Looking down, tugging on her riding gloves, she ran straight into a wall of solid male muscle her senses had no difficulty recognizing.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she protested, bouncing off.

He steadied her, then locked one hand about one of hers. “Just as well.”

His growl made her blink, but she couldn’t see his face—he’d already turned and was striding for the door, towing her behind him. She had to hurry to keep up, frantically grabbing up her habit’s skirt so she could clatter down the steps in his wake.

“This is ridiculous!” she grumbled as he towed her relentlessly to Calista’s side.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

He halted by the mare’s side, swung around to lift her up. He closed his hands about her waist, then paused.

She looked up, met his eyes. As always, she was screamingly aware of her giddy senses’ preoccupation with him and his nearness, but she seemed to be growing used to the effect.

“Have you had an affair before?”

The question had her blinking her eyes wide. “No! Of course not…” The words were out before she’d thought.

But he merely nodded, somewhat grimly. “I thought not.”

With that, he lifted her to her saddle, held her stirrup while she slid her boot in.

Settling her skirts, she frowned at him as he went to his horse and mounted. “What’s that got to say to anything?”

Picking up his reins, he met her gaze. “You’re not exactly making it easy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I told you.” She brought Calista up beside him and they set out along the drive. “There’s the ball, the fete—I’m busy.”

“You’re not—you’re skittish, and looking for excuses to avoid taking the plunge.”

She looked ahead; she made no attempt to meet his eyes, yet she felt his gaze on her face.

“You’re the epitome of efficiency, Caro—you can’t expect me to believe you can’t take two hours out of the afternoon of the day before what for you is a relatively minor ball.”

He was right, at least about that last. She frowned, more inwardly than outwardly. Was he right about the rest, too? She knew what she feared; had it really cut so deep, did the fear hold her so securely that she would unthinkingly, instinctively as he was suggesting, avoid any situation that might challenge it?

She glanced at him. He was watching her but, as their eyes met, she realized he wasn’t seeking to pressure her. He was, most definitely, seeking to understand her; as yet, he couldn’t.

Her heart gave a little twist, a small leap; she looked ahead. Unsure how she felt about being understood, or his wish to do so. After a moment of steady cantering, she cleared her throat. Drew breath and lifted her chin. “I might, indeed, appear to erect hurdles, but I assure you I don’t mean to.” She glanced at him. “I’m every bit as determined on our present course as you are.”

His lips lifted; his smile was all male. “In that case, don’t worry.” He held her gaze. “I’ll ignore your hurdles.”

She humphed and looked ahead, not at all sure she approved of such a tack, yet… as they cantered through the golden afternoon, she drew a certain measure of comfort from it. Regardless of what silly vacillations her fears might drive her to, he wasn’t going to allow her to avoid or resist him—to draw back. In battling her fears, it seemed she’d found an ally.

It wasn’t until they were almost at the clearing that she realized they’d retraced their route to the Rufus Stone. When they cantered into the wide field carpeted in the green and gold of fresh grass and turning leaves, she wondered why he’d chosen this place, wondered what he was planning.

They halted; he dismounted, tethered the horses, then came to lift her down. He lowered her slowly; even when she was steady on her feet, he didn’t let her go.

She looked up; their gazes locked. She felt the fascination between them draw tight, as he drew her closer and bent his head felt their mutual hunger awake.

With his lips, Michael brushed her temple, then bent lower to trace the curve of her ear and nuzzle the sweet hollow beneath. He inhaled, let her scent sink slowly through him, felt himself react. I should probably admit…“

He let the words trail away as he drew her fully against him.

Her hands sliding up, over his shoulders, she blinked at him. “What?”

His lips curved. He lowered his head. “I would have ignored your hurdles anyway.”

He took her mouth, felt her give it, and herself—felt her sink against him. For long moments, he simply savored her, and her implicit surrender. Yet the isolation of the clearing was not why they were here. Nevertheless, capturing her senses, focusing them, and her, on all that would be between them, on the ultimate intimacy that would soon exist before he broached his immediate objective, wasn’t a bad idea.

Eventually, he drew back; when he lifted his head, she opened her eyes, searched his. “Why did you choose here?”

He might be able to addle her senses, but her wits were clearly more resilient. Releasing her, he took her hand, drew her to walk with him toward the stone. “When we came here last time…” He waited until she lifted her gaze to his, until he could capture her eyes. “As we rode into the clearing, I was baiting you.” He saw that she remembered, was remembering. “I wanted a reaction, but the reaction I got was not one I can interpret, even now.”

Looking ahead, she halted; he halted, too, but didn’t release her hand. He shifted to face her. “We were discussing the life of an ambassador’s wife, namely your own, and the duties you or any such lady had to perform.”

Her features set. Without looking at him, she tugged her hand; he tightened his grip. “You warned me of every ambassador’s need for a suitable helpmate—I mentioned that the same held true for government ministers.” Relentlessly he continued, “I then pointed out that Camden had been a master ambassador.”

Her fingers twitched in his, but she refused to look at him; her expression was stony, her chin ominously set. “I brought you here to ask you what about that upset you. And why.”

For a long moment, she remained utterly still, statuelike but for the pulse he could see thudding at the base of her throat. She was upset again, but in a different way… or the same way compounded by something more.

Finally, she drew in a deep breath, fleetingly glanced at him, but didn’t meet his eyes. “I…” Again she breathed deeply, lifted her head and fixed her gaze on the trees. “Camden married me because he saw in me the perfect hostess—the ultimate ambassadorial helpmate.”

Her voice was flat, without inflection; denied her eyes, any chance of reading her feelings, he was left guessing, trying to follow her direction. “Camden was a career diplomat, a very experienced and canny one by the time he married you.” He paused, then added, “He was right.”

“I know.”

The words were so tight with emotion they quavered. She wouldn’t look at him; he pressed her hand. “Caro…” When she didn’t respond, he quietly said, “I can’t see if you won’t show me.”

“I don’t want you to see!” She tried to fling her hands in the air— found her fingers locked in his and tugged. “Oh, for goodness sake! Let me go. I can hardly run away from you, can I?”

The fact she recognized that made him ease his grip. Wrapping her arms about her, she paced, looking down, circling the stone. Agitation shimmered about her, yet her steps were definite; her expression, what he glimpsed of it, suggested she was wrestling, but with what he was still at a loss to guess.

Eventually she spoke, but didn’t slow her pacing. “Why do you need to know?”

“Because I don’t want to hurt you again.” He hadn’t even needed to think to reply.

His words made her pause; she glanced fleetingly at him, then resumed her pacing—from one side of the stone to the other, leaving the chest-high monument between them.

After another fraught pause, she spoke, her words low but clear, “I was young—very young. Only seventeen. Camden was fifty-eight. Think about that.” She paced on. “Think about how a fifty-eight-year-old man, a very worldly, experienced, still handsome and devastatingly charming but ruthless fifty-eight-year-old man convinces a seventeen-year-old girl, one who hadn’t even had a Season, to marry him. It was so easy for him to make me believe in something that simply wasn’t there.”

It hit him. Not like a blow but with the keen edge of a knife. He suddenly found himself bleeding from a place he hadn’t even known could be cut. “Oh, Caro.”

“No!” She rounded on him, silver eyes ablaze. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me! I just didn’t know—” Abruptly, she waved her hands and turned away. Dragged in a huge breath and straightened, lifted her head. “Anyway, it’s all in the past.”

He wanted to tell her that past hurts properly buried didn’t slice at one in the here and now. But he couldn’t find the words, any she would accept.

“I’m not usually so sensitive about it, but this business with you and Elizabeth…” Her voice faded; she took in another breath, still looking away, into the trees. “So now you know. Are you happy?”

“No.” He stirred, stepped around the stone and closed the gap between them. “But at least I understand.”

She glanced over her shoulder as he slid his hands around her waist. Frowned at him. “I can’t see why you need to.”

He drew her around, closed his arms, and bent his head. “I know.”

But you will.

He heard the words in his mind as he set his lips to hers. Not hungrily, but temptingly, coaxingly. She followed, not at first with her usual tempestuous yearning, but yet she went with him. It was a slower, more considered, more deliberate progression into the flames; step by step he led, and she followed.

Until they were burning. Until the heat of their mouths, the pressure of body against body, was no longer enough, not for either of them.

Caught in the moment, wrapped in its promise, needing the heat of it to drive away the past’s chill, Caro resented even the moment he took to step back, shrug out of his coat, flick it out on the ground in the shade beneath a huge oak. When he reached for her and drew her down, she went eagerly, wanting, needing the contact, the wordless assurance that came with his kisses, with each increasingly bold caress.

As usual, he didn’t ask permission to open her bodice, strip away her chemise, and lay her breasts bare—he simply did. Then he feasted, pressing delight upon sensual delight upon her, until she was gasping, skin taut and tight, fevered and burning.

He didn’t ask, but simply reached for her skirt, tugged the front up between them and slid his hand beneath. His searching fingers found her knee, circled it, then traced upward, lingeringly caressing the inner faces of her thighs until the muscles flickered, until she shifted, pressed closer, wordlessly demanding…

She knew what she wanted, but when he touched her curls she nearly expired. Not just with delight, but anticipation. He boldly nudged her thighs apart, stroked through her curls, traced her soft flesh in a languid exploration that left her heated, slick, and throbbing. Then his touch firmed.

He released the breast he’d been tauntingly suckling; lifting his head, from under heavy lids he held her gaze as he slid one finger deep inside her.

Awareness gripped her, excruciatingly acute. She lost her breath, lost touch with her wits; every sense she possessed locked on that assured penetration, on the steady invasion as he pushed deeper, then reached deeper still.

Before she could catch her breath, he stroked, firmly, deliberately. Then he bent his head and covered her lips, kissed her as if she were a houri he owned.

She kissed him back as if she were, avid, greedy—demanding, commanding, even deliberately taunting. He responded in kind. Their mouths melded, tongues tangling as between her thighs he worked his hand, stroked, and drove her mindless.

Gripping his shoulders, she held him to the kiss, suddenly desperate on so many counts. Desperate for him to keep kissing her so he wouldn’t see, wouldn’t have a chance to see—so she wouldn’t have a chance to give herself away by revealing how novel, how indescribably exciting yet glitteringly, fascinatingly new the sensations he was pressing on her were.

Desperate that he wouldn’t stop.

Desperate to reach some sensual pinnacle, to shatter the tension growing and coiling and building within her.

She felt like screaming.

Even through the kiss, she sensed him swear, then between her thighs, his hand shifted.

She tried to pull back to protest; he refused to let her, followed her, holding her trapped in the kiss—then a second finger pressed in alongside the first, suddenly, startlingly, escalating the pressure. The tension racked up another notch; she could feel her body tightening against his.

He held her down, then his hand shifted again; his thumb touched her, stroked, searched, then settled—pressed in time with the stroking of his fingers.

She fractured like crystal in bright sunlight, shards of white-hot pleasure streaking through her, sharp, slicing, abruptly releasing the tension, letting it flow into a golden pool. The pool glowed, throbbed; its heat sank into her, pulsed beneath her skin, in her fingertips, in her heart.

The wonder held her, cradled her, ripped from the world for the very first time, afloat on the ecstasy of her senses.

Slowly, she returned—to the physical world, to comprehension. To the knowledge of what physical delight was, to some inkling of what she’d missed all these years—to a deeper knowledge of what she’d been waiting for, and what he’d brought her.

He’d raised his head; he’d been watching her and still was.

She smiled, slowly, lazily stretched, sensually sated for the first time in her life. Glorying in it.

Her smile said it all; Michael drank it in—decided it was even better than the smile she’d gifted him with when he’d told her he was no longer considering Elizabeth as his bride.

This was a smile worthy of the efforts he fully intended to make— mentally renewed his vow to make—to see it wreathe her face every morning, and every night. It was a smile she deserved as much as he did.

He drew his fingers from her; she’d been tight, very tight, but Cam-den had been dead for two years and had been getting on in years before that. But as he pushed her skirts down, he caught the frown in her eyes, the sudden dulling of the silvery glory. He raised a brow in mute query.

Her frown grew definite. “What about you?” She turned toward him; her hand found him, rigid as granite and equally hard. Her light caress would have brought him to his knees if he’d been upright.

He caught her hand, had to search to find breath enough to say, “Not this time.”

“Why not?”

There was a hint of something beyond the obvious in her disappointment—a disappointment clear enough to lend an edge to his already intent glance. “Because I have plans.”

He did, indeed, and he wasn’t about to share them with her. Given her acknowledged propensity to erect hurdles, the less she knew, the better.

Her frown grew suspicious. “What?”

Flopping onto his back, he slid an arm around her and urged her over him. “You don’t need to know.” He drew her head down, caught her full lower lip between his teeth and gently tugged, then whispered, “But you’re welcome to try to find out.”

She chuckled; again he recalled she didn’t laugh often, resolved, even as her lips pressed to his and she gave herself up to her quest to persuade him, to make her laugh more. To push away the clouds that beneath all the glamour seemed to have dulled her life for too long.

Then she shifted more definitely over him, put her heart and soul into their kiss, and he forgot everything else and gave himself up to simply kissing her back.

Despite her efforts, Caro learned nothing of Michael’s plans. When they returned to Bramshaw House, her neglected duties claimed her; not until her head hit her pillow late that night did she get a chance to think of what had transpired in the clearing. Of what he had wanted, what he had learned, what he had made her feel.

Just the thought of that last made her flesh throb in remembered delight; her body still glowed faintly with the aftermath of pleasure. True, Camden had touched her in similar ways; the veils she’d drawn over those few nights when he’d come to her bed obscured the details, yet she’d never sensed in Camden what she sensed in Michael—and had never reacted, never felt with Camden any of the excitement let alone the glory she felt in Michael’s arms.

Despite the secret worry that still nagged—that something would yet go wrong, that at the end, when it came to the point, what she longed for simply wouldn’t happen—she felt a countering eagerness, an anticipation, a compulsion to go forward, to explore and experience as much as she could. As much as he would show her.

Whatever his plans were, she would follow him regardless.

Regardless of all else, there was one vital point she simply had to know.