The Ideal Bride

Chapter 5

At least he now knew why he needed to know more—a lot more— about Caro.

Relaxed in his chair at the breakfast table the next morning, he wondered why he’d been so slow to correctly interpret the signs. Perhaps because it was Caro and he’d known her forever. Regardless, he was now fully cognizant of at least one of the emotions keeping him so intently focused on her.

It had been a long time since he had, entirely of his own volition, without the slightest encouragement, lusted after a woman. Actively wanted her even though she was intent on running the other way.

Or so he read Caro’s reaction. She’d felt the attraction, that spark that required no thought and asked no permissions; her response had been to avoid giving it a chance to strike, and if that wasn’t possible, then to pretend it hadn’t.

From experience, he knew her tack wouldn’t work. As long as they remained in sufficient proximity to ensure they would meet and inevitably touch, the need would grow only more potent, the spark com-mensurately more powerful, until they let it burn.

The only problem he could see in that was that the woman involved was Caro.

Her reaction wasn’t a surprise. Unlike Ferdinand, he knew the correct interpretation of her nickname. The “Merry Widow” was, as such English nicknames sometimes were, a perverse expression. In Caro’s case, she was an outwardly merry widow in that she was a hostess of some note, but the real meaning was that she’d been chased by the best of them, yet had refused to be caught. Just as red-haired men were often called Bluey she was, in reality a severely chaste widow who never encouraged anyone to imagine otherwise.

She was the opposite of what the term “Merry Widow” led the naive to suppose.

Which meant he was in for a difficult and uncomfortable time of it, at least until he convinced her that her only option was one that would suit her as well as it would suit him.

Savoring the last of his coffee, he considered how long convincing her might take. Considered the hurdles before him. To be the gentleman who tempted the Merry Widow enough to get into her bed, and her…

A challenge indeed.

It would be a diplomatic triumph of an unusual order, even if no one ever knew of his success. But they would, of course; that was part of his plan.

He could pull it off; he was a politician born and bred, and such innate qualities were precisely those required. He just had to finesse his way past Caro’s defenses.

And along the way, when he had her defenseless in his arms, he’d learn what it was that had so upset her, and if he could, put it right.

Deeming it wise to let the day go by, to let her normal, natural confidence reassert itself and assure her she was safe, that he posed no threat to her and so didn’t need to be kept at a distance, he schooled himself to sit in his study and deal with the months’ worth of accounts and minor details his agent had dutifully left piled on his desk.

Two hours later, he was steadily plodding through the pile when Carter tapped on the door and entered.

“Mrs. Sutcliffe has called, sir.”

He checked his memory. “Which Mrs. Sutcliffe?” Caro? Or one of Camden’s nieces-by-marriage‘?

Mrs. Caroline, sir. She’s in the drawing room.“ Thank you, Carter.” He rose, wondering, then inwardly shrugged. He’d learn soon enough.

When he entered the drawing room, Caro was standing before the windows looking out over the front lawn. Sunbeams lanced through her cloud of frizzy hair, striking copper and red glints from the golden brown. Her gown was a pale blue a few shades darker than her eyes; fine and summer light, it clung to her figure.

She heard him and turned, smiled.

And he instantly knew she was a long way from believing him un-threatening. As usual, however, it was only instinct that told him so; Caro herself gave nothing away.

“I hope you don’t mind—I’ve come to sound you out and pick your brains.”

He returned her smile, waved her to the chaise. “How can I help?”

Caro grasped the moment of crossing to the chaise, gathering her skirts and sinking gracefully down, then waiting for him to lounge, relaxed but attentive in the armchair facing her, to marshal her thoughts and dragoon her wits out of the morass of irrational panic they’d developed a habit of sinking into every time the possibility of Michael’s coming close to her loomed.

She didn’t understand her sudden sensitivity; she could barely believe that after all her years of extensive worldly experience, she was now—here in deepest Hampshire—falling victim to such an affliction. Determined to conquer it, or at the very least ignore it, she clung to her pose of assured serenity. “I’ve decided to give a ball on the evening preceding the church fete. It occurred to me that with so many from London in the neighborhood, if we hold a ball, invite them all, and arrange to house them locally overnight, then they could spend the next day at the fete before heading off in the afternoon.”

She paused, then added, “I suppose what I’m proposing is a condensed house party with the ball as its highlight and the fete as its extension.”

Michael’s gaze remained on her face; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. After a moment, he asked, “So your underlying purpose is to use the ball to bolster attendance at the fete, especially with those down from London, which in turn will greatly increase local interest, thus ensuring the fete is a resounding success?” ‘

She smiled. “Precisely.” It was a delight to deal with someone who saw not just actions, but implications and outcomes. Of course, ensuring the fete’s success was not the ultimate purpose driving her latest project. After yesterday, both Elizabeth and Edward were adamant over bringing the situation with Michael to a head; they wanted to create some situation that would definitively demonstrate Elizabeth’s incapacity to adequately fill the role of Michael’s wife.

Thus a major social event to be attended by numerous diplomatic and political personages, tied to a major local event. The organization required would be horrendous, and Elizabeth was, indeed, a mere apprentice in that regard.

Caro, of course, could handle such a challenge without a qualm, and would; they were hoping the demonstration of her talents would focus Michael’s attention on Elizabeth’s lack of such highly evolved social skills.

He was regarding her with what seemed to be faintly amused interest. “I’m sure you’re already halfway organized. How can I help?‘

“I was wondering if you would agree to put up some of the guests from farther afield for the night of the ball.” She didn’t wait for a reply, but artfully continued, “And I also wanted to ask your opinion on the guest list—do you think that little difficulty between the Russians and the Prussians has blown over? And, of course…”

The conversational reins firmly in her grasp, she set out to create her field of battle.

Michael let her rattle on as she would, increasingly certain her peripatetic discourse wasn’t as lacking in direction as it seemed. Regardless of her ultimate goal, her observations were accurate, often cannily acute; when she directed a specific question his way, and actually paused to give him a chance to answer, it was on a subject that was a diplomatic minefield. Their ensuing comments evolved into a discussion of some depth.

After a while, she rose; still talking, she paced, circling the chaise, then sank down onto it once more. He didn’t stir, but watched her, conscious of the intellectual challenge of dealing with her on more than one level simultaneously. Indeed, on more than two. He was perfectly aware there was more going on than the obvious, and equally certain she was determinedly ignoring at least one thread in their interaction.

Finally, relaxed once more on the chaise, she spread her hands and asked directly, “Well, will you help?”

He met her gaze. “On two conditions.”

A sudden wariness slid behind her lovely eyes; she blinked and it was replaced by an expecting-to-be-amused smile. “Conditions? Good heavens! What?”

He smiled, striving to make the expression as unthreatening as he could, not entirely sure he’d succeeded. “One—it’s too lovely a day to spend sitting inside. Let’s take this discussion on a stroll through the gardens. Two”—he held her gaze—“that you’ll stay for lunch.”

She blinked, slowly; he was very sure she was, most definitely, wary of him physically. Of getting physically close. He knew of only one way to address such a problem, and she’d handed him the solution on a platter.

Having set the stage herself, she couldn’t now not play; her smile deepening, she refocused on his face. “Very well—if you insist.”

He fought to stop his smile from deepening. “Oh, I do.”

She rose; so did he, but he turned aside to the bellpull to summon Carter and instruct him about luncheon, giving her the chance to escape onto the terrace.

When he followed her out, she was standing at the top of the steps facing the front lawn. Her hands were clasped before her; her shoulders rose as she drew in a deep breath.

He moved to stand beside her and she very nearly jumped. He met her eyes, offered his arm. “Let’s go across the lawn and through the shrubbery, and you can tell me how many guests, and whom, you think would best be quartered here.‘

Inclining her head, she tucked her hand in the crook of his arm; he resisted the urge to draw it further and cover it with his, to draw her closer. They descended the steps and started strolling.

Lifting her head, Caro focused on the trees lining the drive and forced her mind to the myriad details of organizing the ball—away from the hideously distracting presence beside her. Her lungs had seized again; it was a wonder she could speak. “The Swedes definitely.” She threw him a glance. “I won’t wish General Kleber on you—we’ll keep the Prussians at Bramshaw. The grand duchess will almost certainly attend, and she’ll expect to stay with me.”

She continued working through the guest list; grappling with logistics did, indeed, make it easier to cope with Michael’s nearness. He gave her no cause to panic further, but asked intelligent questions, ones she could answer. He had met, or knew of, most of those she intended to invite; he was aware of the undercurrents between the various groups.

They strolled down a path between the trees, then circled through the extensive shrubbery, eventually reemerging onto the drive not far from the terrace from which they’d set out.

“I’ve a confession to make,” Michael said as they climbed the terrace steps.

She glanced at him. “Oh?”

He met her gaze, and she was struck by a dreadful suspicion that he could see through her social shield. Her lungs locked; her nerves tensed. His gaze traveled her face, but then he smiled, an easy, comfortable, and to her comforting, gesture.

“Despite making me promise to open the fete, Muriel neglected to mention when the event is.” His eyes returned to hers, full of self-deprecatory laughter. “Rescue me—when is it?”

She laughed, felt the tension that had gripped her dissolve. Found she could meet his eyes with genuine ease. “A week from tomorrow.”

“So”—gaining the terrace, he waved her to the wrought-iron table now set with luncheon dishes—“your ball would be a week from tonight.”

“Yes.” She sat in the chair he held for her, then waited until he took the one opposite before launching into details of the ball itself; she’d saved that subject so she’d have something to keep him occupied. “I’m not yet sure of my theme.”

Michael hesitated, then suggested, “Keep it simple.”

When she opened her eyes at him, he elaborated, “More informal than a London ball. Everyone will have had a surfeit through the Season, but in the country in summer there’s no reason you need adhere to full ceremony.”

If she did, he’d have the devil of a time securing some of her attention on the night.

“Hmm… even though we’re talking of the diplomatic corps?” Her brows rose higher. “Perhaps you’re right.”

She paused to consume a forkful of Mrs. Entwhistle’s pastry, then, gaze distant, waved the fork. “What about calling it a Midsummer Revels, rather than a ball?”

He knew a rhetorical question when he heard one; he made no reply.

“There’s a wonderful group of musicians in Lyndhurst who would be perfect. They’re very good with lighter, summery airs and country dances.” Her eyes had lit; she was clearly envisioning the event. “It Would certainly be something different…”

He sipped his wine, then raised the glass to her. “A summer wine to tempt the jaded palate.”

She met his eyes, grinned. “Precisely. Yes—that’s what we’ll do.”

The next half hour went in a discussion of potential problems and how best to deal with them. Knowing the importance of foreseeing such hitches and having plans to deal with them before they arose, Caro had composed her guest list with an eye to highlighting Michael’s need for a hostess who understood matters such as the esoteric wran-glings currently exercising the Russians and their Prussian neighbors.

“So,” she concluded, “can I rely on you to keep an eye on the Prussians and the Russians and make sure they don’t come to blows? I want Edward to keep a more general eye on things, and I’ll be everywhere, of course.”

Michael nodded. “The Polish charge d’affaires will be of some help, I daresay.”

“Really?” She raised her brows. “He’s always struck me as such a mild sort, rather ineffectual.”

Michael’s lips curved; he met her eyes. “Appearances can be deceptive.”

Inwardly, she stilled; outwardly, she opened her eyes wider, then shrugged. “If you’re sure.” Pushing back her chair, she laid aside her napkin. “Now I really must go and make a start on the invitations.”

Michael rose and came to draw back her chair. “I’ll walk you to the stable.”

She picked up the gauzy scarf she’d draped over the chair back; she caught it between her hands, intending to flip it over her hair, but stopped. Instead, as they went down the steps and set off around the house, she kept the scarf in her hands, idly playing with the long band, thus obviating him offering her his arm.

Not that he made any move to do so. Instead, he walked beside her, his strides long and easy… almost lazy.

They walked through the sun-dappled orchard, and she felt her nerves easing once more. Despite that odd panic that while he was close never seemed to be far away, her latest ploy had played out very well. She’d managed, and survived the whole quite creditably. Surely he could see that an innocent, relatively inexperienced young lady like Elizabeth could never cope with the demands of social events the like of which his wife would need to organize.

As Camden’s bride, Caro been plunged into the higher diplomatic circles with even less preparation than Elizabeth had now; she could still remember the paralyzing panic, the stomach-churning fear—she wouldn’t wish that on any young lady, much less her own niece.

Surely, with all the details of the ball and its associated organization laid before him, he’d realize…

She drew in a breath, lifted her chin. “Elizabeth’s out picnicking with the Driscolls and Lord Sommerby.” She flashed a smile Michael’s way. “She hates doing invitations—inscribing the same phrases time after time—but…”

Michael caught the tension in her voice as she continued, searching for ways to draw attention to Elizabeth’s youth and lack of experience without being obvious. That that had been the principal purpose behind her visit, perhaps even behind the ball itself, he didn’t doubt; that she was acting to deflect him from offering for Elizabeth’s hand he no longer questioned. Yet her manipulation itself no longer concerned him—what had moved her to it, her attitudes, her silences, most of all the vulnerability and occasional, fleeting panics he detected behind her glamour of supreme confidence and capability, did.

Elizabeth’s face, and Edward’s, too, flashed across his mind, yet it was the need to spare Caro that had him reaching for her hand.

She was gesturing as she spoke; he trapped her fingers in midair, unsurprised when her words abruptly died.

Halting, she faced him, eyes wide, pupils dilating, breath caught. He met her gaze, trapped her silvery eyes; he was acutely conscious that they were out of sight of the house, screened by the orchard’s trees, all in full leaf. “You don’t need to be so busy on Elizabeth’s behalf.”

Shifting his hold on her hand, enclosing her fingers in his, he stepped closer, realized from the way she blinked, then, a frown forming in her eyes, searched his, that she wasn’t sure of his meaning.

You don’t need to instruct me about Elizabeth anymore.“ His lips lifted wryly. ”You’ve convinced me.“

Caro stared into his blue eyes. She’d never been knocked so far off-balance in her life. He was too close—she was so aware…

How long had he known?

The thought jerked her free of the mesmerizing effect he had on her. She narrowed her eyes, concentrated. Did he mean what she thought he did? “You’ve changed your mind? You won’t be offering for Elizabeth’s hand?”

He smiled. “I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be offering for Eliza-beth’s hand.” He paused, then raised her fingers to his lips, lightly brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Elizabeth is not my ideal bride.”

The touch of his lips sent a tingling sensation skittering down her arm, but that was overwhelmed, then submerged, by the incredible relief that rose up and poured through her.

Only then did she realize she hadn’t been certain of her ability to save Elizabeth, hadn’t until then appreciated how important to her saving Elizabeth from an unhappy political marriage had become.

She smiled freely, totally without restraint, making no attempt to mask her joy. “I’m so glad.” Her smile only grew. “It wouldn’t have worked, you know.”

“I realized that.”

“Good.” She couldn’t stop beaming; if she’d been younger, she would have danced. “I’d better go.” And tell Elizabeth the good news.

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head and released her hand. He waved her on to the stables.

Michael walked beside her, waited with her while Hardacre brought out her gig. Her smile… it was radiant. He felt smugly content that he’d spoken the right words to put it on her face. It was a joy to behold; it warmed him from the inside out. He stood basking in the glow, his hands clasped tightly behind his back to make sure he didn’t reach for her and spoil the moment.

The gig arrived; he helped her to the seat. She’d continued to fill his ears with plans for the ball, yet her words were now transparently free of any overarching intent; they were straightforward expressions of her thoughts—he heard the ring of clarity, and realized he’d taken a significant step closer to Caro herself, a significant step deeper into her confidence.

He waved her off with considerable satisfaction.

Once the gig and she had disappeared around the drive, he set off, still smiling, to walk back to the house.

His words had lifted a burden from Caro’s shoulders; even if he had the moment again, he wouldn’t have scripted it otherwise. Her joy had been fascinating, a true delight, even if it had prevented her from realizing that in shifting his attention from Elizabeth, he’d fixed it on someone else.

Someone a great deal more experienced than Elizabeth.

Smile deepening, he looked up at the house and walked steadily on.

He was actually looking forward to Muriel’s supper tonight.

“Ah, there you are, Michael!”

Severely handsome in plum silk, Muriel swept forward as he walked into her drawing room.

He shook the hand she offered, then glanced around the room. It was decently filled, largely with ladies although there were some other gentlemen scattered among the skirts.

“Let me introduce you to our new members.” Muriel steered him to a group stationed before the French doors presently open to the rear garden. “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Carlisle. She and her husband have recently come to live in Minstead.”

His politician’s smile to the fore, he shook Mrs. Carlisle’s hand and learned she and her husband had moved to the district from Bradford. He progressed around the group, meeting two others new to the area and renewing his acquaintance with the three other ladies who had known him for years.

Although they did not vote, here as in any district it was the ladies who were most active at all levels of community service, organizing gatherings like the church fete and supporting institutions such as the orphanges and workers’ refuges. Michael viewed their goodwill and support as a key factor in shoring up his personal standing as local Member; only with that secure could he safely devote his mind to the wider challenges the Prime Minister was intent on handing him. Consequently, he did not begrudge the time he spent at evenings like this; indeed, he was happy to grasp the opportunity Muriel had handed him and make the most of it.

He was engaged in doing precisely that when Caro entered the room. Facing the hearth, he was chatting to two gentlemen before the fireplace when instinct prompted him to glance up into the mirror above the mantelpiece.

Caro stood framed in the doorway, looking around. Dressed in a delicate, simply styled gown of printed silk, she drew the eye, yet seemed to fit perfectly into the setting. Pearls draped her throat and glowed on one wrist, from which a matching reticule hung; beyond that, she wore no other ornamentation, and needed none.

She located Muriel; smiling, she moved to greet her.

Covering his lapse, he continued discussing the corn price, then glibly excused himself and strolled on. To intercept Caro.

She started slightly when he appeared beside her; no one else would have noticed—no one else was watching her so intently. Capturing her hand, he managed to stop himself from raising it to his lips, contented himself with placing it on his sleeve. “I wondered when you’d arrive.”

She returned his smile with one that still held a large measure of her earlier joy. “It’s such a lovely evening, I decided to walk.” She glanced around. “Have you met everyone?”

With his head, he indicated a group by the side of the room. “I haven’t spoken with Mrs. Kendall yet.” He caught Caro’s gaze, let his smile deepen. “She’ll want to tell me about the boys’ home. Come and support me.”

He intended to behave as he meant to go on; he wondered how long it would take her to recognize his new direction.

She steeled herself, faint tension infusing her spine as if to guard against the effect he had on her, but, still smiling, still glowing with that inner happiness, she inclined her head. “If you wish, but I can’t think what support you might need from me.”

Glancing at Michael’s face, Caro saw his smile flash—was it her imagination that, just for that instant, painted it predatory?—but his expression was easy as he met her gaze and murmured, “You’re the only one in the room of similar background—you’re the only one who truly understands my jokes.”

She laughed; as before, the touch of humor soothed her taut nerves. She was content to accompany him while he spoke with Mrs. Kendall, who did indeed want to discuss the boys’ home, then they moved on to speak with others, some intent on claiming her attention, some his.

That afternoon, on returning from the Manor floating on a cloud of unfettered relief, she’d gone straight to the parlor and reported their success to Elizabeth and Edward. They’d celebrated over tea, congratulating themselves and admitting, now they could, that playing such tricks on Michael, mild though they had been and definitely for his own good, had not sat altogether well with them.

But he’d seen, and agreed, and by that agreement absolved them; she felt so thoroughly happy and vindicated, subduing her silly reaction enough to remain by his side for a while seemed a very small price to pay.

An hour passed surprisingly easily, then Muriel announced that supper was laid out in the dining room. Finding herself by Michael’s side at the long buffet, with him helping her to herb patties and shrimp in aspic, surrounded by numerous others yet still somehow with him alone, she paused, then slanted him a glance.

He felt it, looked at her. He searched her eyes, then raised a brow, his lips lightly curving. “What is it?”

She glanced down at a platter of cucumber florets. “You should circulate, not stick by my side.”

He waited until she looked up again to ask, “Why?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “As you’re perfectly aware, this is one of those occasions when a Member needs to work the room.”

His smile was genuine. “Yes, I know.”

She decided against the cucumber, stepped away from the table.

Plate in one hand, he took her elbow and steered her toward the bank of windows open to the rear garden. “I just can’t see why we can’t circulate together.”

Because every time he touched her, her nerves seized and she forgot how to breathe.

She kept her tongue between her teeth, kept a serene, relaxed expression on her face, and fought to ignore the way her senses fixed on him, how they reached for and craved the solid strength of him as he walked, languidly assured, by her side. She knew perfectly well how solid his body was; she’d collided with it twice now. For some illogical, irrational, totally witless reason, her senses were luridly, slaveringly fixated on what the third time would be like.

Halting before the windows, he released her; facing him, she drew in a breath. Before she could utter the protest she was certain she should, he said, “Think of it as me claiming your protection.”

“Protection?” She sent him a look that stated very clearly she wasn’t about to accept any such spurious reasoning—or any appeal to her feminine emotions, either. “You, of all people, in this crowd, need no protection beyond your own gilded tongue.”

He laughed, and she felt more comfortable, a touch more in control.

Suddenly realized that with him—and in truth, with him alone, at least within the confines of her private life—she did not, as she did with everyone else, exercise her usual level of mastery. Or rather, she might exercise it, yet it might very well not work. Her ability to manage him was not assured, not something she could take for granted.

They’d been eating, nibbling; she glanced up at him. He trapped her gaze; he’d been watching her face. He studied her eyes, then raised a brow in mute question.

She let her chin set. “Why are you clinging to my side?”

His brows rose; his eyes laughed at her. “I would have thought that’s obvious—you’re a much more entertaining companion than anyone else here, especially our often overhelpful hostess.”

She had to grant him that last. Muriel’s attempts at assistance could sometimes be disastrous. Yet she wagged a finger at him. “You know perfectly well you’re pleased she’s organized this evening—you’ve been able to do your local rounds without lifting a finger.”

“I never said I wasn’t grateful—it’s merely that my gratitude extends only so far.”

“Humph! If she hadn’t organized this, what would you have done?”

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

Ignoring the effect of that smile, she humphed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And subsequently with a succession of others.

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

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

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

“Ah.” Muriel blinked. “I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“I am not—”

“Why are you arguing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eyes like silver shards, she opened her lips—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He heard a sound suspiciously like a sniff.

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

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

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

How could she explain what she didn’t understand?

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

She blinked, peered ahead.

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

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

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

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

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

The path led directly into the forest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll walk you to the door.” Michael kept his arm around Miss Trice; Caro noted the older woman seemed to find his support comforting.

The attack had taken place just yards from the vicarage gate. Once they were through it and walking up the paved path, Michael asked, “I don’t suppose you have any idea who those men were?”

Miss Trice shook her head. “They’re not local men, that I’d swear. I think they were sailors—they smelt fishy, they had the arms for it, and their voices were terribly rough.”

They were within easy riding distance of Southampton. Although it was unusual for sailors to penetrate far into the bucolic countryside, tonight two had, intent on attacking some woman.

Michael glanced at Caro as they reached the vicarage steps; her attention was all for Miss Trice. He wondered whether it would occur to her that if he hadn’t insisted on driving her home, and persisted until she succumbed, she would have been the first woman to walk this way down the village street.

In the dark, alone.

Without anyone close behind to rescue her.