The Ideal Bride

Chapter 11

Michael rose early the next morning. He tried to immerse himself in catching up with the London news, reading the news sheets and letters from various correspondents, but time and again he caught himself sitting in his armchair, booted ankle propped on one knee, his gaze fixed before him—thinking of Caro.

She’d spoken of hurdles she didn’t mean to place before him, and then revealed one gigantic, triple-bar water jump that, unintended or not, he was going to have to find some way to clear.

Camden had married her for her talents, her undeniable skills. From what he knew of Camden, that came as no surprise; if any man had known which innate abilities were required to produce a topnotch hostess, and been able to recognize them in a raw young lady of seventeen, Camden had been that man. He’d already buried two highly talented wives.

That, however, wasn’t the problem. Caro hadn’t understood, had thought he’d been marrying her for other reasons, presumably the usual romantic reasons young ladies dreamed of, and Camden—

Michael gritted his teeth, but had no difficulty imagining the Camden he’d known and heard so much about deploying his charm and glittering, multifaceted personality to dazzle a young lady he’d wanted for his own. Oh, yes, he would have done it, knowingly led her up the garden path, let her think what she would—anything to gain what he’d wanted.

He’d wanted Caro, and got her.

But to her, it had all been under false pretenses.

That was what had wounded her, scarred her; the spot was still tender, even after all these years.

Just how tender, he’d seen for himself; he wouldn’t willingly prod that point anew. He didn’t, however, regret doing so. If he hadn’t… at least he now knew what he faced.

Given that she was fully cognizant of his own urgent and very real need for just such a wife as Camden had wanted, just the sort of talented female she herself was, getting her to agree to marry him was going to be an uphill slog.

And that’s where the gigantic, triple-bar water jump stood—not in the way of getting her into his bed, but between him and his ultimate goal.

He pondered that, then decided it lay too far ahead—who knew what might happen between then and now? Perhaps another, clearer route to marriage would open up, and he wouldn’t need to front that gigantic, triple-bar water jump after all.

His plans were sound; one step at a time—secure one goal before moving on to take the next.

Leaving the subject, setting it aside, he tried to concentrate on his aunt Harriet’s latest letter. He read one more paragraph before his mind wandered… to Caro.

Stifling a curse, he folded the letter and tossed it on the pile on his desk. Five minutes later, he was on Atlas’s back, cantering toward Bramshaw.

Wisdom insisted that the day of a ball—and despite what he’d said, Caro’s Midsummer Revels, attended by so many diplomatic personages, would be no minor event—was not the time to call on any lady. If he had any sense, he would have done as he’d planned and played least in sight. Yet here he was…

He decided that, aside from all else, it would be unfair to leave Edward to watch over Caro on his own. Geoffrey would doubtless have taken refuge in his study and would not be seen until dinner, so someone should be there who had some chance of reining Caro in, should that prove necessary.

He found her on the terrace, directing the placement of tables and chairs on the lawns below. Absorbed with waving two footmen carrying a table further to the right, she didn’t realize he was there until he slid his hands around her waist and lightly squeezed.

“Oh—hello.” She glanced distractedly up and back at him, slightly breathless.

He grinned down at her, let his hands drift down, lightly caressing her hips. The small army on the lawn below couldn’t see.

She frowned—sternly warning. “Have you come to help?”

He sighed, resigned, and nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

Fatal words, as he quickly discovered; she had a list of errands as long as his arm. The first she shot his way involved moving furniture in and out of the reception rooms; some pieces had to be temporarily lodged in various other places. While the footmen struggled with sideboards and larger pieces, he, along with Edward and Elizabeth, was detailed to see to the lamps, mirrors, and other awkward but delicate and valuable items. Some needed to be removed, others repositioned. The next hour flew.

Once she was satisfied with the dispositions within doors, Caro returned outside. A marquee had to be erected to one side of the lawn; Michael exchanged a glance with Edward and they quickly volunteered. Better that than lug urns and heavy pots about the terrace and along the walks.

Elizabeth said she’d help. The canvas of the marquee lay folded at the edge of the lawn along with the clutter of its poles, guy ropes, and the stakes to anchor them. Between the three of them—Caro was off overseeing something else—they got the canvas laid out, then came their less-than-successful attempts to get the poles in position and hoist the canvas aloft. The marquee was hexagonal, not square—as they quickly learned, a much more difficult proposition.

Eventually, Michael got one corner aloft. Holding the pole steady, he nodded at Edward. “See if you can get the central pole up.”

Edward, by now in his shirtsleeves, eyed the mass of canvas, nodded once, grimly, and dived beneath. He had to fight his way through the folds.

Within seconds, he was lost. A series of poorly suppressed curses floated out from beneath the heaving canvas. Elizabeth, barely able to contain her laughter, called, “Wait—I’ll help.”

She, too, dove under the canvas.

Michael watched, indulgent and amused, leaning against the pole he was propping up.

“What is taking so long with this?” Caro bustled around the wall of canvas he was supporting. She took note of his hand wrapped about the pole, arm braced, then turned her attention to the still-heaving canvas and the muffled, indistinct but suggestive sounds coming from beneath it.

Hands rising to her hips, she glared. Muttered beneath her breath, “We don’t have time for this nonsense.”

Reaching out, he caught her around the waist; before she could protest, he tugged her to him. She landed against him, hands to his chest; the pole wobbled but he managed to keep it upright.

She caught her breath, looked up at him; he looked deep into her eyes, all but saw her wits marshaling a blistering reproof even while her senses danced a giddy jig. She blinked, fumbling to get her tongue to deliver the protest her brain had formed.

He smiled, watched her gaze fix on his lips. “Let them have their moment—it’s not going to upset your schedule.” He was about to add, “Don’t you remember what it was like to be that young?” meaning that young and in the throes of first love; he remembered just in time that Caro almost certainly didn’t remember, because almost certainly she’d never known…

Bending his head, he kissed her, at first gently, until their lips melded, then with increasing passion. Theirs was not a young love, but a more mature engagement; the kiss reflected that, rapidly deepening.

The wall of canvas screened them from the myriad others hurrying about the lawns and gardens. Edward and Elizabeth were still struggling beneath the marquee.

Michael lifted his head the instant before Elizabeth emerged, shaking her skirts and valiantly stifling giggles. He released Caro as soon as he was sure she was steady on her feet.

Elizabeth saw his arm sliding from around Caro’s waist; her eyes widened, sudden understanding writ large in her face.

Caro saw it; in an uncharacteristic fluster, she flapped her hands at Elizabeth—Edward was still under the marquee. “Do hurry up! We have to get this done.”

Elizabeth grinned. “Edward’s got the central pole in place, ready to hoist.”

“Good.” Stepping out quickly, back toward the house, Caro nodded. “Carry on!”

With that injunction, she bustled away—in a much greater fluster than when she’d bustled up. Michael watched her go, a smile in his eyes, then turned to Elizabeth. Ignoring the speculation in her face, he waved her to a pole. “If you can get the next corner in, we should be able to get the roof up.”

They managed, albeit with much muted cursing and laughter. With the marquee properly erected and secured, they presented themselves to Caro, who fixed them with one of her more stern looks.

“Mrs. Judson needs help sorting all the cutlery and glassware for dinner, and for the supper to be laid out in the marquee.” She fixed Elizabeth and Edward with a severe glance. “The two of you can go and help her.”

Unabashed, the pair smiled and headed for the dining room. Caro turned her strait glance on him. “You can come with me.”

He grinned. “With pleasure.”

She humphed and marched past, nose high. He fell into step, half a pace behind her. The swish of her hips was distracting. A quick glance around showed no one else in the corridor; boldly, he reached out and ran a hand over those distracting curves.

He sensed her nerves leap, heard her breath catch. Her stride faltered, but then she walked on.

He didn’t take his hand away.

She slowed as they approached an open doorway. Glanced over her shoulder, struggled to frown direfully. “Stop that.”

He opened his eyes wide. “Why?”

“Because…”

He stroked again and her gaze unfocused. She moistened her lips, then halted at the open doorway and dragged in a breath. “Because you’ll need both hands to carry these.”

She waved into the room. He looked, and stifled a groan. “These” were huge urns and vases filled with flowers. Two maids were putting the finishing touches to the arrangements.

Caro smiled at him. Her eyes glinted. “Those two go in the ballroom, and the others are to be stationed about the house—Dora will tell you where each goes. When you’ve finished, I’m sure I can find something else to keep your hands busy.”

Deliberately, he smiled at her. “If you can’t, I’m sure I’ll be able to suggest something.”

She humphed as she turned away; he watched her walk down the corridor, distracting hips swishing, then he smiled and turned to the urns.

Carrying them hither and yon gave him plenty of time to think and plan. As she’d warned, there were arrangements to be placed all over the house, including on the first floor in and near the rooms prepared for the guests staying overnight. Most would arrive in the late afternoon, which explained the frenetic activity, everything before the green baize door had to be perfect before any guests climbed the front steps.

Carting flower arrangements all over reacquainted him with the house; he was familiar with it, but had never had reason to study the layout in detail. He learned which rooms were guest rooms, which were currently used by the family and Edward, and which would remain unused. There were a few rooms in the last category; after Dora released him, he disappeared upstairs.

Twenty minutes later he descended, and went looking for Caro. He found her on the terrace, a plate of sandwiches in one hand. The rest of the hungry household were scattered on the lawns, the terrace steps, on the chairs and tables, all munching and drinking from mugs.

Caro, too, was munching. Stopping beside her, he helped himself to a sandwich from her plate.

“There you are.” She glanced at him. “I thought you must have left.”

He met her gaze. “Not without giving you a chance to sate my appetite.”

She caught the double entendre but, calmly looking forward, waved to the platters of sandwiches and jugs of lemonade placed along the balustrade. “Do help yourself.”

He grinned and did so; returning to her side with a plate piled high, he murmured, “I’ll remind you you said that.”

Puzzled, she frowned at him.

He grinned at her. “Later.”

Michael remained for another hour, being, Caro had to admit, helpful. He didn’t do anything else to distract her. After his comment on the terrace, he didn’t have to; that exchange replayed in her mind for the rest of the afternoon.

The man was a past master at ambiguity—a true politician, beyond doubt. Later. Had he meant he’d explain what he’d meant later, or that he’d remind her she’d told him to help himself later?

The latter possibility, linked with the phrase “giving you a chance to sate my appetite,” constantly intruded on her thoughts—thoughts that should have been focused on the less personal challenges of the evening ahead. As she paused to tweak the delicate filigree headdress she’d chosen into place, she was conscious of not just anticipation, but expectation tightening her nerves, something very close to titillation teasing her senses.

Casting a last glance over her gown of shimmering ecru silk, noting with approval how it clung to her curves, how it brought out the gold and brown glints in her hair, she settled her large topaz pendant just above her decolletage, made sure her rings were straight, then, finally satisfied she looked her best, headed for the door.

She reached the main stairs to discover Catten waiting in the front hall. As she descended, he tugged his waistcoat into place and lifted his head. “Shall I sound the gong, ma’am?”

Stepping off the stairs, she inclined her head. “Indeed. Let our Midsummer Revels commence.”

She glided into the drawing room, her words still ringing, her lips lifting.

Michael stood before the fireplace, Geoffrey beside him. Michael’s gaze fixed on her the instant she appeared. She paused on the threshold, then glided on; they both turned to her as she joined them.

“Well, m’dear, you look fetching—very elegant.” Looking her up and down, with brotherly affection Geoffrey patted her shoulder.

Caro heard him, but barely saw him. She smiled vaguely in response to the compliment, but her eyes were all for Michael.

There was something about seeing a gentleman in strict formal attire; true, she’d seen him in formal settings in the past, but… now he was looking at her, appreciating her, visually drinking her in, and watching her do the same, appreciatively taking in the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, his height, the length of his long legs. In severe black, contrasting strongly with the pristine white of cravat and shirt, he seemed to tower over her even more than usual, making her feel especially delicate, feminine, and vulnerable.

Geoffrey cleared his throat, mumbled some comment, and left them; their gazes locked, neither glanced his way.

Slowly, she smiled. “Are you going to tell me I look fetching and elegant?”

His lips lifted, but his blue eyes remained intent, deadly serious. “No. To me you look… superb.”

He invested the word with a meaning far beyond the visual. And she suddenly felt superb, as glowing, captivating, and desirable as his inflection painted her. She drew breath; an extra, unusual, novel confidence welled and filled her. “Thank you.” She inclined her head, half turned toward the door. “I must greet the guests.”

He offered his arm. “You can introduce me to those I’ve not yet met.

She hesitated, looked up and met his gaze. Recalled her determination not ever again to act as hostess for any man. She heard voices on the stairs; any minute the guests would appear. And if they saw her standing there with him… ?

If they saw him standing by her side at the door… ?

Either way, he would be seen to have taken a position with respect to her, one no other man had succeeded in attaining.

Which was true; he did, indeed, hold that position. He meant something to her, more than a mere acquaintance, more, even, than a friend.

Inclining her head, she slid her hand onto his sleeve and let him lead her to stand by the door. He’d said he wouldn’t attempt to maneuver her into marriage, and she trusted him in that. Indeed, the dinner guests were primarily foreigners with no real influence within the ton.

As for the idea that people would see him as her lover… she viewed that prospect not just with equanimity, but with a subtle thrill very close to happiness.

Ferdinand, however, was one of the first to appear. He took one look at Michael and very nearly scowled. Luckily, with more guests arriving, he had to move on; he was quickly swallowed up into the general conversation as those who were staying at Bramshaw House overnight as well as those selected others who’d been invited for dinner before the ball rolled in.

From that moment on, she had barely an instant to call her own, and certainly not one second to think of anything personal. She discovered it was useful having Michael by her side; he was far more at home in this milieu than Geoffrey and could be relied on to recognize potentially difficult situations and handle them with suitable tact.

They made a very good team; she was conscious of that, knew he was, too, yet instead of making her uneasy, each shared, appreciative glance filled her with a sense of achievement, of satisfaction.

Of Tightness.

She didn’t have time to dwell on it; the dinner—ensuring all went as it should while keeping the conversation sparkling—claimed all her attention. It passed off well, without a hitch, and then the party was repairing to the ballroom. She’d timed it nicely; the dinner guests just had time to admire the floral theme and take note of the garlanded terrace with the lawns and walks beyond lit by lanterns, and the marquee with chairs and tables set ready for supper, before the first stir beyond the ballroom doors.

All was as it should be as the ball guests strolled in.

Michael returned to stand by Caro’s side as, with Geoffrey, she greeted the incoming guests. She flicked him a glance, but made no direct comment, simply guided the newcomers his way, ensuring he had a chance to exchange a few words with everyone attending. As this group was primarily locals, none read anything into the arrangement. Geoffrey was the past Member, Caro his sister, and Michael the present Member; to them, all seemed as it should be.

As the tide slowed to a trickle, Michael touched Caro’s arm; with his eyes, he indicated the Russian delegation, presently in the restraining company of Gerhardt Kosminsky. He pressed her arm, then left her, strolling through the crowd, stopping here and there to exchange compliments and comments, to eventually come up with the Russians and relieve Kosminsky. He and Kosminsky had agreed that one or other should keep the Russians in view, at least until the general bonhomie of the ball took hold.

Nodding to the senior Russian, Orlov, Michael resigned himself to playing his part; aside from all else, his selfless service would put him in Caro’s good graces. Given his plans for later that evening, that wouldn’t hurt.

Meanwhile, her Midsummer Revels had attracted enough senior diplomats to keep her supplied with dance partners throughout the evening. He was tall enough to see over most heads; while chatting with the Russians, then later with the Prussians, the Austrians, and the Swedes, he kept the delicate diadem she’d set in her hair in view. She was constantly on the move.

He saw Ferdinand propping a wall, watching her; he mentally wished him luck—in this setting, the hostessly bit between her teeth, Caro would be impossible to distract, totally ruthless in refusing to be detained. By anyone. He knew his limits. Later, he saw Ferdinand again, this time sulking, and deduced the handsome Portuguese had learned his.

There was a time and place for everything. The one weak link in his strategy lay in ensuring that when the supper waltz commenced, he was the gentleman in possession of Caro’s hand. During a break in the music, he paused beside the dais on which the musicians were seated; a quick word and a few guineas strengthened his position. When the opening bars of the supper waltz sounded, he’d just returned to Caro’s side, just reclaimed her hand, and had sotto voce informed her while bowing over it that the Russians and Prussians had thus far failed to come to blows.

She was smiling, relieved and entertained as the music swelled. He trapped her gaze. “My dance, I believe?” How could she refuse him?

With a laugh, she acquiesced and let him lead her to the floor. As she came into his arms and let him whirl her into the revolving circle, he realized she had no inkling that he was steering her in more ways than one.

He looked into her face, smiled into her eyes, found himself trapped in her silver gaze. Initially, she smiled back, as assured as he, yet gradually, as they twirled, their smiles faded, melted away, along with all consciousness of the noisy crowd around them.

Just that shared look, and he knew what she was thinking. That despite knowing each other for so long, inhabiting much the same circles, this was the first time they had ever shared a waltz.

She blinked; he saw her mind reach back…

“It was a country dance, last time.”

She refocused. Nodded. “In Lady Arbuthnot’s ballroom.”

He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that here, now, the moment was much different. It wasn’t simply the waltz, the fact that they were both expert in the dance, that their bodies flowed effortlessly through the turns. There was something more, something deeper that left them more attuned, more alert, more aware, more acutely sensitive to the other.

Despite their training, to the exclusion of all else.

Caro felt the fascination, knew he did, too, and could only marvel. Nothing in her life had ever had the power to shut her ears, mentally shut her eyes, focus her senses to this degree. She was a captive, but a willing one. Her nerves tingled, her skin seemed alive, sensitive to his nearness, to the aura of strength that wrapped about her, not trapping her but holding her, promising sensual delights she craved.

Her senses led, her mind followed.

She was relaxed, yet excited, nerves taut yet assured.

Only when they slowed and she realized the music was ending did awareness of the present return. To them both. She saw it in his eyes; the reluctance she glimpsed in them mirrored her own.

The shield about them dissolved and chatter washed over them, for one instant a babel of incomprehensible tongues. Then over all the rest came Catten’s stentorian tones directing everyone to the supper waiting in the marquee, to the chairs and tables, and the benches and well-lit walks, to the beauty of the midsummer night.

To a person, the throng turned to the three double French doors opened wide to the terrace. Delighted, exclaiming, guests poured out of the ballroom, stepping out into the balmy evening.

She and Michael had halted on the opposite side of the ballroom, not far from the main doors. She hung back, watching, making sure everyone was heading in the right direction. Once she was satisfied no guest had failed to understand the summons, she looked up, her hand firm on Michael’s arm.

He smiled down at her. His hand covered hers. “Come with me.”

She blinked; it took a moment to comprehend his meaning. “Now?” She stared at him. “I can’t—” She looked toward the last stragglers disappearing onto the terrace.

Blinked again, then looked up at him. “We can’t…” She searched his eyes, aware her pulse had started to canter. She moistened her lips. “Can we?”

His smile deepened, his blue eyes held hers. “You’ll never know unless you come with me.”

Her hand locked in his, he led her up the main stairs. They saw no one, and no one saw them. Guests, household members, and staff were all outside on the lawns, or rushing back and forth between the kitchens and the marquee.

There was no one to hear them walk down the first-floor corridor to the small sitting room at its end. He opened the door and handed her through; she entered expecting to see chairs, chaise, and sideboard draped with holland covers. The room had been closed for years; it overlooked the side avenue and the orchard beyond.

Instead… the room had been cleaned, dusted, and swept and the covers all removed. The vase of lilacs standing on the small table before the open window suggested the when and how.

She’d forgotten the daybed. Wide, comfortable, it was now piled with cushions. Stopping beside it, she turned. And found him beside her, waiting to take her in his arms.

With confident ease, he gathered her to him and kissed her, parted her lips, sank into her mouth and claimed its softness. She met him, sank into his embrace, eagerly accepted every caress, returned them, and demanded more.

His head slanted over hers; her fingers speared through his hair and tightened on his skull as his tongue thrust deep in a definitely provocative rhythm. A rhythm that tightened her nerves, that sent heat pouring through her. And him. She wondered how much deeper, how much closer the simple intimacy of a kiss could get, how much more revealing.

The revelations were intoxicating—the hunger, the need, the simple human wanting, both his and hers. There seemed, between them at least, no disguise, no veil of propriety either sought to use to conceal the primitive nature of their desire.

Mutual desire. It had been her goal for a decade and more; in his arms, she knew it, felt it, recognized and acknowledged it. She gasped as he released her lips, then pressed her close as he trailed hot kisses from her temple to the hollow beneath her ear while his fingers undid her laces.

“Ah…” She couldn’t think all that clearly, but she did remember she had a ballroomful of guests downstairs.

Bear with me,“ he murmured. ”In light of all the sharp eyes downstairs, returning with a crushed gown wouldn’t be wise.“

No, indeed. But…

His hands had earlier traced her curves, through the fine silk of her gown pressed flames and heat into her skin. The dewed flush she was starting to associate with his bolder caresses had already sprung up and raced across her more sensitive regions.

As her gown loosened, her mind belatedly caught up with his; she blinked, struggling to get her wits to work as he stepped back and drew her arms down, with his large palms slid the narrow straps of her gown over her shoulders, down over her arms—then he caught her wrists and raised them, draped her arms over his shoulders, and reached— not for her, but for her gown, for the folds that had collapsed at her waist.

She dragged in a breath, but the look on his face as he pushed the ecru silk over her hips, as the gown shushed down to puddle about her feet, stifled her protest—one she realized was instinctive, another of her unintentional hurdles. The desire that lit his eyes as they traveled her body, revealed yet still tantalizingly concealed by her tissue-fine chemise, had her tensing, racking the delicious vise that held her one notch tighter.

The chemise’s top was gathered above her breasts; the hem fell at midthigh, flirting with her ruched silk garters. Her body, its curves and hollows, the fine thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs, were only imperfectly screened by the diaphanous fabric.

His gaze, heated and bold, looked, traced, openly cataloged; he smiled when his roving eyes reached her garters, then he lifted his gaze, slowly, until his eyes met hers.

Desire burned in the blue—she couldn’t doubt it; the same driving emotion etched the slow curve of his lips.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider putting me out of my misery and removing that.”

His eyes indicated her chemise, then returned to her face. Brazenly, she caught his gaze, arched one brow in query.

“I’m afraid if I touch it,” his voice deepened as his gaze dropped to her breasts, “I’ll tear it.”

For an instant, reality—prudence and propriety—intruded; resolutely, she pushed them aside. She’d realized he’d imagined her more experienced than she was; in agreeing to an affair, in taking the road she’d wanted to take and fixing on the goal she was determined to reach, she’d accepted she’d have to play to his direction.

What she hadn’t expected was that it would be so easy.

So easy to, while watching him watch her, raise her hand and tug the tiny ribbon bow nestled between her breasts undone. It slithered between her fingers, then the ends fell free.

There was only a handspan separating them; she could feel the tension holding him, feel it increase as, raising both hands, she slipped her fingers inside the chemise’s neckline and eased it wide. Until it was wide enough to fall. To her hips. With a wriggle, she freed it and it joined her gown.

Heat reached for her—a heartbeat later he did, too, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Wait.”

He froze.

For an instant, she felt giddy—dizzy with the sense of power that suffused her—that she could, with just a word, with one small hand, hold him immobile, muscles, sinews, and masculine strength locked and quivering, simply waiting on her.

On her desire.

The realization sent a rush of heat through her. Swiftly, she bent, swiped up her gown and chemise and laid them over a nearby chair. She reached for her garters—

“No. Leave them.”

The absolute command in his voice stayed her more than the words. She was straightening, turning to him, when his hands touched her bare skin.

They spread, touched, slid; he drew her to him, flush against him, then locked her in his arms. Bent his head and kissed her, ripped her wits away and sent them spinning.

Then his hold on her eased, and his hands roved her body.

Emotions ignited, rippled through her, preceptions, revelations, and more. She’d thought him hungry before; now he was ravenous. Yet his control held firm; his touch was driven, urgent, greedy, and needful, yet masterful, almost reverent in taking all she wordlessly offered.

And offer she did; her own hunger, her own desire rose to meet his. She surprised herself, pressing herself to him, eager and enticing, flagrantly inviting; she hadn’t known, not in her wildest dreams had imagined she had it in her to behave like this, wanton, abandoned, just a little wild.

She wanted more—wanted to feel his skin against hers. He was hot, so hot, and so hard. That need swelled until it became a physical ache. Driven, she drew her hands from where she’d clasped them about his nape, pressed them to his shoulders and tried to push back.

He broke from the kiss.

“Now you,” she gasped, grasping the lapels of his coat.

“The coat, but nothing else.” He suited action to the words, shrugging off his evening coat and flinging it to join her gown. “You have guests, remember?”

She blinked. “But I’m the one naked.”

His lips curved; one large hand caressed her bottom, then he gripped and drew her back to him, molding her to him, bending his head to murmur against her lips, “Not naked. You’re still wearing your stockings.”

“But—”

He kissed her—lingeringly. “Not tonight, sweet Caro.”

She was confused. “But—”

“Think of tonight as the second course in our sensual banquet.”

A sensual banquet… the thought appealed. Her hands found his shoulders, felt the heavy, shifting muscles beneath the layers of waistcoat and shirt. Felt his hands spread over her bare back, stroking, caressing, then exploring. Roving anew.

His lips returned to tempt hers. His hands shifted.

“You’re my hostess, remember? I told you I expected you to sate my appetite—you told me to help myself.”

His thumbs were cruising her breasts, teasing her nipples to painful crests; his body was hard against hers.

“So just be quiet, lie back, and enjoy it while I do.”

She had no choice—whatever his chosen road was tonight, it was outside her experience, yet she was eager to follow, to see where it led. There was no doubt in her mind, and none to color her responses; she met him freely, erected no more hurdles, nor felt compelled to create any restrictions.

Michael read her agreement in the way she allowed him to lower her to the daybed, in the way she relaxed, naked though she was, on the cushions alongside him and let him sculpt her body as he wished.

She flowed with him, with his caresses; he received her eager participation not just with inward triumph, but with a feeling very like thankfulness. He had himself, his raging lust and escalating desire, well in hand, yet if she pushed… he was increasingly certain he wouldn’t be strong enough to resist her if she sought to tempt him.

Safety, therefore, lay in reducing her to helplessness; he set about doing so, conscious of a devotion to the exercise that exceeded any such situation in the past. She captured his senses, held them enthralled in some way no other woman ever had. When, one hand splayed over her waist, he eased back from their kiss and bent his head to her breasts, he couldn’t remember a time when his whole being had been so focused, so acutely aware of taste, of texture, of tactile sensation.

When he’d reduced her to gasping moans, to arching wantonly beneath him, he replaced his lips and mouth with his fingers, and bent lower to trail kisses down to her navel. He dallied there, until her gasps came short and sharp, then nudged her thighs wide, shifted lower and settled between.

Felt the shock that gripped her. Set his lips to her soft flesh and felt the convulsive start that rocked her, that made her lungs seize, her fingers clench in his hair. Inwardly smiling, he settled to feast, to, as he’d warned her, sate his appetite—with her.

With her scent, with the. apple-tart sweetness of her swollen flesh.

Caro shut her eyes tight, but that only made the sensations more intense. She couldn’t believe—hadn’t imagined… her mental protests, her very wits melted away as he pressed heat and yet more heat on her, into her, impressed intimacy upon her through yet more shockingly intimate and flagrant acts.

Yet every touch was deliberate, expertly gauged, designed and executed with one primary goal—to give her pleasure. Mind-numbing, glorious, soul-drenching pleasure. His aim became clearer with every passing minute; delight welled, swelled—until she simply let herself flow with the tide.

Let herself whirl, then rise, spinning higher and higher as he delicately sucked, lapped, probed, as he orchestrated a dizzying splendor of sensation and sent it raging through her.

Heat built until within her a furnace roared. Her nerves were tight, and only grew tighter. Her lungs were starved, her breasts swollen and aching, her body a restless knot of need. And still he pushed her on, Gave her more and more…

Until she shattered.

The bliss was deeper, longer, more intense than before. The pulsing of joy in its wake lengthened and stretched, the moment infinitely more truly intimate, infinitely more a sharing.

When she finally opened her eyes, he still lay propped between her widespread thighs, watching her face. He smiled knowingly; bending his head, he placed a kiss on her damp curls, then started kissing his way up her taut belly.

With weak hands, she reached for him, caught his shoulders and tried to tug. “Now you.”

He glanced up at her face, met her eyes, tried to smile but it turned into a grimace. “Not tonight, sweet Caro.”

She stared at him. “Not? But—”

“We’ve been absent long enough.” He eased away from her, swung his legs to the floor, then stood and looked down at her.

Still stunned, limbs weak, her wits in disarray, she blinked up at him.

He grinned, reached down, took her hands, and drew her to her feet. “You need to get dressed, then we need to appear again before your guests.”

He might well be right, yet… she had to own to nagging disappointment. Accepting her chemise from him, she struggled into it, trying to think. He helped her into her gown, then expertly relaced it.

She put a hand to her hair.

“Wait.”

He turned her to face him, resettled her diadem, touched the fine mass of her hair here and there, then stepped back and looked her over. Stopped at her breasts. Lifted her topaz pendant and settled it in place.

She met his eyes as they rose to hers. Searched them. Simply asked, “Are you sure?”

He didn’t ask about what. Instead, his lips lifted; bending his head, he touched them fleetingly to hers. “Oh, yes.” He straightened and his eyes met hers. “When I finally have you naked beneath me, I want at least two hours to play.”