The Ideal Bride

Chapter 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sat with the countess; Elizabeth and Lady Kleber joined them. The general emerged from the house; after genially greeting all the ladies, he joined Edward and Ferdinand at another table.

The conversation was brisk; Lady Kleber, the countess, and Caro discussed impressions gained during the recent Season. Their subjects ranged from diplomatic suspicions to the latest fashions. Exchanging observations, Caro wondered, as she had increasingly over the past hours, if Michael had been invited.

She’d half expected him to appear at Bramshaw House and claim a place in the carriage, but such an action would have surprised even Geoffrey—Eyeworth Manor was closer to Crabtree House than Bramshaw was. To join them, he’d have ridden in quite the wrong direction; clearly he’d decided against that tack.

Assuming he’d been invited.

She glanced across as footsteps heralded further arrivals—but it was the Polish charge d’affaires with his wife, son, and daughter. Caro appreciated Lady Kleber’s forethought in inviting the younger pair— they made a natural foursome with Elizabeth and Edward, much to Ferdinand’s transparent disgust; he had to swallow it, bow to the ladies, and let Edward escape.

She continued to chat and watch as others arrived. No Russians, of course, but the Swedish ambassador, Verolstadt, his wife, and their two daughters joined them, followed by two of the general’s aides-de-camp and their wives.

Caro inwardly frowned. Lady Kleber was an experienced diplomatic hostess, unfailingly correct; she possessed none of her more famous relative’s eccentricities. So she should have invited Michael. Not only was he the local Member, but she must have heard the rumors…

The minutes ticked by; surrounded by glib conversation, Caro grew increasingly concerned. If Michael was to move to the Foreign Office, he needed to be present at affairs such as this—the more informal, relaxed, private entertainments at which personal links were forged. He needed to be here—he ought to have been invited… she tried to think of some excuse to inquire…

“Ah—and here is Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby!” Lady Kleber rose, a patently delighted smile wreathing her face.

Swinging around, Caro saw Michael walking up from the stables. She hadn’t heard the crunch of hooves on the drive—he’d ridden over through the forest. She watched him greet Lady Kleber, and felt distinctly irritated over her earlier worry; he clearly needed no champion in the diplomatic sphere. When he wished, he could be disgustingly charming; she watched him smile at the countess and bow over her hand, and inwardly humphed.

Quietly handsome, assured, subtly dominant, his brand of charm was far more effective than Ferdinand’s.

Her gaze flicked to Ferdinand; he was edging her way, positioning himself so he’d be able to claim her side when the party descended to the lawn. Glancing around, she looked for escape… and realized there wasn’t any—other than…

She looked at Michael; had he lost interest in pursuing her?

Him or Ferdinand—which would be wiser? Lady Kleber had told them the picnic was to be held in a clearing a little way into the forest; Caro knew the way there—a gentle stroll, and they would hardly be alone…

The decision was taken out of her hands. Via a maneuver she had to admit was masterful, she was the last person Michael greeted.

“Good, good! Now we are all here, we may go and enjoy our picnic, ja?” Beaming, Lady Kleber waved to the lawn, then circled, determinedly shooing them off the terrace.

Having just shaken Caro’s hand, Michael retained it. Looking into her eyes, he smiled. “Shall we?” Smoothly, he drew her to her feet.

Her senses flickered, and it wasn’t, this time, simply due to his nearness. There’d been a glint of steel behind the blue of his eyes, and his grip on her hand, the restrained power behind his claiming of her company… he definitely hadn’t given up the chase.

He anchored her hand on his sleeve, then looked at Ferdinand. “Ah, Leponte—do join us.”

Ferdinand did, very readily, yet it was Michael who had her arm. As they descended to the lawn, then set out in train with the others to stroll to the clearing, she wondered what he was up to—what new tack he was taking with Ferdinand.

They entered the trees following a well-beaten path. She caught the movement as Michael glanced over her head at Ferdinand.

“I understand you’re something of a disciple of Camden Sutcliffe?”

Direct attack—more usually a political than a diplomatic gambit, perhaps in this instance to be expected. She glanced at Ferdinand, saw color tinge his olive skin.

He nodded, a touch curtly. “As you say. Sutcliffe’s career is a pattern card for those of us who seek to make our way in the diplomatic arena.” Ferdinand met Michael’s steady regard. “Surely you would agree? Sutcliffe was, after all, your countryman.”

“True.” Michael let his lips curve. “But I’m more politically inclined than diplomatically so.”

That, he felt, was fair warning; there was a great deal of ruthless cut-and-thrust in politics, while diplomacy was by definition more a matter of negotiation. Looking ahead, he nodded toward the Polish charge d’affaires. “If you truly want to learn about Sutcliffe and what shaped him, you’re in luck—Sutcliffe’s first appointment was to Poland. Kosminsky was a junior aide in the Polish Foreign Ministry at the time; his professional acquaintance with Sutcliffe dates from ‘86. I understand they remained in touch.”

Ferdinand’s gaze had locked on the dapper little Pole chatting with General Kleber. There was a fractional hesitation while he manufactured a suitably delighted mien. “Really?”

His features lit, his eyes didn’t. They were curiously flat when he met Michael’s gaze.

Michael smiled, and didn’t bother to make the gesture charming— or even all that pleasant. “Really.”

Caro understood his meaning; she surreptitiously pinched his arm. He glanced down at her, a silent What? in his eyes.

Hers flared warningly, then, apparently distracted, she looked into the trees. She pointed. “Look! A jay!”

Everyone stopped, looked, peered, but of course no one else except Edward saw the elusive bird. Which only confirmed that Edward was both loyal and exceedingly quick-witted.

On the other hand, he’d had five years to grow used to his employer’s little tricks.

She had more than her fair share of them, Michael had to grant her that. By the time she’d explained to Ferdinand what jays were, and why spotting one was so exciting—something he himself hadn’t fully appreciated—they’d reached the picnic site.

It was instantly apparent that the English vision of a picnic—hampers of food spread on cloths with rugs strewn about on which to sit— had not translated directly into Prussian. Various chairs had been grouped about the clearing; along one side, a trestle table groaned beneath numerous silver dishes and a complement of plates, cutlery, glassware, wines, and cordials that would have done a formal luncheon proud. There was even a silver epergne set in the center of the display. A butler and three footmen hovered, ready to serve.

Despite the relative formality, the party achieved a pleasantly relaxed ambience, due largely to Lady Kleber’s efforts, ably assisted by Caro, Mrs. Kosminsky and, surprisingly, the countess.

That last put him on guard; there was something going on, some ongoing connection between the Portuguese and Camden Sutcliffe, although of what nature he couldn’t yet guess. The countess’s uncharacteristically cheery behavior made him even more determined to keep his eye on Ferdinand—her nephew.

He pretended not to see the countess’s first two attempts to attract his notice. Sticking to Caro’s side—something she seemed to be growing more accustomed to—plate in hand, he moved with her as she circulated, group to group, while they all savored the meats, fruits, and delicacies Lady Kleber had provided.

Caro’s agenda quickly became clear; personally, she didn’t have one—her application was entirely on his behalf. She was patently intent on using her considerable contacts and even more formidable talents to smooth his way, to give him a step up into what had been her world, a world in which she still, if not reigned, then at least wielded a certain power. Her unsolicited support warmed him; he tucked the feeling away to savor later and focused his attention—more than he most likely would have if left to his own devices—on making the most of the opportunities she created for him to make those personal connections that were, at bedrock, what international diplomacy most surely relied on.

The company had disposed of the last strawberry and the footmen were packing away the plates when he felt a gentle touch on his arm. Turning, he looked into the countess’s dark eyes.

“My dear Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby, dare I claim a few minutes of your time?”

Her smile was assured; he couldn’t very well deny her. With an easy gesture, he replied, “You perceive me all ears, Countess.”

“Such a strange English saying.” Claiming his arm, she waved to two chairs set at one side of the clearing. “But come—I have messages from my husband and the duke, and must discharge my duty.”

He had his doubts about the importance of her messages, yet her citing of duty struck an oddly true note. What was going on?

Regardless of his curiosity, he was acutely conscious of being led away from Caro. He would have made some effort to include her, even in the teeth of the countess’s clear wish for a private discussion, but when he glanced around, he saw Ferdinand deep in conversation with Kosminsky.

The little Pole was in full flight; Ferdinand was presently engaged.

Relieved on that score, he went without argument, waiting while the countess settled in one chair, then sitting in the other.

She fixed her dark eyes on his. “Now…”

Caro glanced at Michael, leaning forward, relaxed yet focused on whatever the countess was telling him.

“Sure you won’t come?”

She looked back at Edward. He met her eyes, flicked his gaze to Ferdinand and back, then raised his brows.

“Ah—no.” Caro looked past him at the youthful group heading down the path that led to a pretty dell.

The afternoon had grown warm; the air beneath the trees was heavy, redolent with the scents of the forest. Most of the older guests were showing definite signs of settling for a postprandial nap, all except Mr. Kosminsky and Ferdinand, and Michael and the countess, who were absorbed with their discussions.

“I’ll… sit with Lady Kleber.”

Edward looked unimpressed by her strategy. “If you’re sure?”

“Yes, yes.” She flicked her hands, shooing him toward where Elizabeth and Miss Kosminsky dallied, waiting for him. “Go and enjoy your ramble. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with Ferdinand.”

Edward’s last look plainly said, In this setting? but he knew better than to argue. Turning, he joined the girls; within minutes, the group had disappeared along the path through the trees.

Caro rejoined Lady Kleber, Mrs. Kosminsky, and Mrs. Verolstadt. Their talk, however, quickly became desultory, then faded altogether. A few minutes later, a gentle snore stirred the air.

All three older ladies had their eyes closed, their heads back. Caro glanced swiftly around the clearing; most others, too, had succumbed—only Kosminsky and Ferdinand and Michael and the countess were still awake.

She had a choice—pretend to fall asleep, too, and fall victim to whichever of the two men pursuing her first came, like Sleeping Beauty’s prince, to wake her—as she would wager her best pearls they would—or…

Quietly rising, she drifted around the chairs—and kept drifting, silent, wraithlike, until the trees closed around her, and she was out of sight.

Quite what she’d hoped to achieve—by the time she reached the stream, sanity had returned.

Sinking onto a flat rock nicely warmed by the sunshine, she frowned at the rippling stream and decided it had been her vision of Sleeping Beauty, trapped, forced to wait and accept the attentions of whichever handsome prince turned up to press a kiss to her lips… it really had been too reminiscent of her own situation, so she’d done what any sane woman would have—even Sleeping Beauty if she’d had the chance. She’d upped stakes and run.

The problem was that she couldn’t run far, and was therefore in danger of being run to earth by one or the other of her princes—pursuers. On top of that, one knew this piece of forest even better than she.

Worse still, if she was destined to be caught by one, and had to choose, she wasn’t sure which of them she should opt for. In this setting, Ferdinand would be difficult to manage; Edward had been right there. However, regardless, Ferdinand had little chance of sweeping her off her feet and into any illicit embrace. Michael, on the other hand…

She knew which of the two was more truly dangerous to her. Unfortunately, he was the one with whom she felt immeasurably safer.

A conundrum—one for which her considerable experience had not prepared her.

The distant snap of a twig alerted her; concentrating, she heard a definite footfall. Someone was approaching along the path she’d taken from the clearing. Quickly, she scanned her surroundings; a thicket of elder growing before an ancient birch offered the best hope of safe concealment.

Rising, she hurriedly climbed the bank. Circling the thicket, she discovered the densely growing elder did not extend to the trunk of the massive birch, but instead formed a palisade screening anyone standing under the birch from the stream. Beyond the birch the ground rose steadily; she might be visible from higher on the bank, yet if she stood in front of the birch…

Slipping into the screened space, she took up a position before the huge birch trunk and peered toward the stream. Almost immediately, a man came striding along the bank; all she glimpsed through the elder leaves was a shoulder, the flash of a hand—not enough to be certain who he was.

He halted; she sensed he was looking around.

Stretching this way and that, she tried to get a better sight of him— then he moved and she realized he was scanning the bank, the area where she stood, simultaneously realized the coat she’d glimpsed was dark blue. Ferdinand; Michael was wearing brown.

She held her breath, still, eyes locked on where Ferdinand stood… childhood games of hide-and-seek had never felt so intense.

For long moments, all was silent, unmoving, the heavy heat beneath the trees a muffling blanket. She became aware of her breathing, of the beat of her heart… and, suddenly, a disconcerting ruffling of her senses.

Those senses abruptly flared; she knew he was there before she actually felt him, moving silently toward her from around the tree. Knew who he was before his large hand slid around her waist; he didn’t urge her back against him—her feet didn’t move—yet suddenly he was there, all heat and strength at her back, his hard body, his solid masculine frame all but surrounding her.

She hadn’t been breathing before; she couldn’t now. A rush of warmth flooded her. Giddiness threatened.

Raising a hand, she closed it over his at her waist. Felt his grip firm in response. He bent his head; his lips traced the sensitive skin below her ear. Suppressing a reactive shiver, she heard his whisper, low, deep, yet faintly amused, “Stay still. He hasn’t seen us.”

She turned her head, leaned back into him, intending to tartly tell him “I know”—instead, her gaze collided with his. Then lowered to his lips, mere inches from hers…

They were already so close their breaths mingled; it seemed strangely sensible—meant to be—that they shifted, adjusted, closed the distance, that he kissed her and she kissed him even though they were both highly conscious that mere yards away Ferdinand Leponte searched for her.

That fact kept the kiss light, lips brushing, caressing, firming even while they both continued to listen.

Eventually came the sounds they were waiting for, a faint curse in Portuguese followed by the sound of Ferdinand’s footsteps retreating.

Relief swept Caro, softening her spine; she relaxed. Before she could collect her wits and retreat, Michael seized the moment, juggled and turned her fully into his arms, closed them about her, parted her lips and slid into the honeyed cavern of her mouth.

And took, tasted, tantalized… and she was with him, following his script, content, it seemed, both to allow and appreciate the slowly escalating intimacy that each successive encounter brought. Wrought. A reflection of the steadily escalating desire building within him and, he was sure, in her.

He felt confident of that last even though she was extremely difficult to read, and apparently set on denying it.

Recalling that, recalling his real purpose in coming after her, and accepting that greater privacy would be wise, he reluctantly eased back from the kiss.

Lifting his head, he looked into her face, watched the shadows of emotions swim through her eyes as she blinked and reassembled her wits.

Then she glared, stiffened, and pushed back from his embrace.

Managing to keep his lips straight, he let her go, but caught her hand, stopping her from stalking off.

She frowned at his hand, locked about hers, then lifted a chilly gaze to his face. “I should return to the clearing.”

He raised his brows. “Leponte is lurking somewhere between the clearing and here—are you sure you want to risk running into him… alone, under the trees…”

Any lingering doubts over how she saw Leponte—any inclination to view the man as a rival—were banished, reduced to ashes by the aggravation in her eyes, by the nature of her hesitation. Her gaze remained locked with his; her expression eased from haughty dismissal to exasperation.

Before she could formulate some other plan, he said, “I was on my way to check the pond, to make sure the stream is still running freely. You may as well come with me.”

She hesitated, making no secret that she was weighing the risks of accompanying him against those of inadvertently running into Leponte. Unwilling to utter any promise or assurance he had no intention of keeping, he kept silent and waited.

Eventually, she grimaced. “All right.”

Nodding, he turned away so she wouldn’t see his smile. Hand in hand, they left the protection of the elders and headed further along the stream.

She threw him a suspicious glance. “I thought you said the stream was unblocked?”

“It was, but as I’m here”—he glanced at her—“with nothing better to do, I thought I’d make sure we’ve got the problem permanently fixed.”

He walked on, leading her deeper into the forest.

The pond was well known to locals, but as it was buried deep in Eyeworth Wood, a segment of the forest and part of his lands, few others knew or even suspected its existence. It was located in a narrow valley, and the surrounding vegetation was dense, less easy to penetrate than the tracts of open forest.

Ten minutes of tramping along forest paths brought them to the pond’s edge. Fed by the stream, it was deep enough for the surface to appear glassy and still. At dawn and dusk, the pond drew forest animals large and small; in midafternoon, the heat—not as heavy here, yet still considerable—wrapped the scene in somnolence. They were the only creatures awake, the only ones moving.

They glanced around, drinking in the quiet beauty then, still holding Caro’s hand, Michael led the way around the bank to where the stream exited the pond.

It was gurgling merrily, the sound a delicate tinkling melody falling into the forest silence.

Halting at the stream’s head, he pointed to a spot ten yards along. “A tree had lodged there—presumably it came down in winter. There was debris built up around it, almost a dam. We hauled out the tree and the worst of it, and hoped the stream would clear the rest itself.”

She studied the free-flowing water. “It seems to have done so.”

He nodded, gripped her hand and stepped back. Drew her back with him—without warning released her hand, locked his about her waist, lifted and whirled her; setting her down at the base of a huge oak, her back to the bole, he bent his head and kissed her.

Thoroughly this time.

He sensed her gasp—knew she tried to summon and cling to outrage—felt a spurt of very masculine delight when she failed utterly. When despite her clear intent to resist she instead met his thrusting tongue, when within seconds her lips firmed and, for her almost boldly, with that lick of elusive passion, not only met his demands, but seemed intent on gaining more.

The result was a kiss, a succession of increasingly heated exchanges that, to his considerable surprise, evolved into a senusal game of a type he’d never played before. It took him some moments—it took effort to tear even a part of his mind free enough to think—before he realized what was different.

She might not have had much experience kissing, believing, wrongly, that she didn’t know how; he’d expected her, once he’d seduced her thus far, to be eager to learn—as indeed she was. What he hadn’t expected was her attitude, her approach to that learning, yet now he was dealing with it, lips to lips, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, it was, indeed, pure Caro.

He was starting to realize she did not possess an acquiescent bone in her body. If she agreed, she went forward, determined and resolute; if she disagreed, she would resist equally trenchantly.

But being acquiescent, going along with something without any real commitment, was simply not Caro.

Now he’d forced her to face the question, she’d obviously decided to take him up on his offer to teach her to kiss. Indeed, she seemed intent on getting him to teach her more—her lips, her responses, were increasingly demanding. Commanding. Matching him, step by step, meeting him toe to toe.

If the complete capture of his senses, the total immersion of his attention in the exchange, the increasingly definite reaction of his body were anything to go by, she didn’t need any more teaching.

Abruptly, he pulled back, broke the kiss, aware of just how dangerously insistent his own desire was growing. Aware of the rising beat in his blood. He lifted his head only inches, waited until her lids fluttered, then rose—searched her silver eyes.

He needed to know if she was where he thought she was, if he was reading her responses accurately. What he saw… was at first surprising, then intensely gratifying. A degree of amazement—almost wonder—lit her lovely eyes. Her lips were full, a lusher pink, slightly swollen; her expression turned considering, assessing, yet he sensed beneath it all that she was pleased.

She cleared her throat; her gaze dropped to his lips before she quickly raised it and attempted to frown at him. She tried to ease back, but the bole was behind her. “I—”

He swooped, cut her off, shut her up. Shifted closer and slowly, deliberately, pinned her against the tree.

Felt her fingers tense on his shoulders, then ease.

She’d been about to protest, to insist they stop and rejoin the oth-ers—it was what she’d feel she had to say. Not necessarily what she wanted.

Most of her would-be suitors, he would wager, had failed to grasp that point. Caro played by the social rules; while she was an expert at bending them to her cause, she also felt bound by them. She’d been married for nine years; she would have got into the habit of refusing all invitations to dalliance. Her reaction was doubtless now ingrained; as he’d just proved, the only way to get inside her defenses was to ignore them, and the rules, entirely.

Simply act—and give her the opportunity to react. If she’d truly wished to stop, she would have struggled, resisted; instead, as he deepened the kiss and, leaning one shoulder against the tree, eased her body against his, she slid her arms up and twined them about his neck.

Caro clung to him, drank in his kiss, brazenly kissed him back— and ignored the tiny, dwindling voice of reason that kept insisting this was wrong. Not only wrong, but seriously, dangerously stupid. Right now, she didn’t care, swept away on a tide of exultation she’d never before experienced—never expected to experience.

Michael truly wanted to kiss her. Not once, not twice, but many times. More, he seemed… she didn’t know what the burgeoning compulsion she sensed in him truly was, but the word that came to mind was “hungry.”

Hungry for her, for her lips, for her mouth, to take and savor as much as she would allow. As he could seduce her to allow, yet in terms of seduction, to her his very wanting was the ultimate temptation. Just as well he didn’t know, and she was far too wise to tell him.

His lips, hard and commanding, on hers, the way his tongue filled her mouth, savoring and caressing, then retreated, luring her to reciprocate, was no longer an education but a fascination. A sensual delight she, now reassured, could indulge in and enjoy.

The notion of kissing—at least kissing Michael—no longer filled her with dread. Instead…

Shifting her hands, she spread her fingers, speared them through his thick locks, and gripped, holding his head steady so she could more forcefully press a deep, soul-satisfying kiss on him. A curious heat was building within her; she let it rise and suffuse her, pour through her— and into him.

His reaction was immediate, a surge of ravenous hunger that was acutely satisfying. She met it, urged him on—felt her whole body tighten deliciously when he sank deep into her mouth and plundered.

Indeed, her body seemed to heat even more; the warmth spread in greedy licks beneath her skin. Her breasts felt tight… the weight of his chest against them was curiously soothing, yet not enough.

He suddenly increased the intensity of their exchange with a flagrantly incendiary kiss-—one that curled her toes and left parts of her she’d never imagined could be affected throbbing.

Her breasts ached—then he eased back. She gathered her wits to protest—

His hand at her waist released, glided up and settled, hard and definite, his palm spread over her breast.

Her protest died, frozen in her mind. Panic awoke with a jerk—

His hand closed, firm, commanding; her senses splintered. The odd ache eased, then swelled anew.

Eased again as he caressed, kneaded.

For one instant she teetered, uncertain… then heat rose in a wave, rushed through her—and he kissed her more deeply, she kissed him back, openly sharing, and his fingers firmed again.

Panic was smothered beneath a welling tide of sensation; deep and very real curiosity held it down. He’d succeeded in teaching her how to kiss. Perhaps he would, perhaps he could, teach her more…

Michael knew the instant she decided to allow him to caress her; he felt no inward smirk, only heartfelt gratitude. He needed the contact as much as she; she might have starved for years, yet his desire was, at least at this point, the more urgent.

That, he promised himself, would change—he had a very definite vision of what he wanted from her—but that time was not yet. For now…

He kept his lips on hers, artfully distracting her every time he edged their intimacy deeper. Instincts prodded him to open her bodice, to savor her exquisitely fine skin, yet they were standing in the middle of the woods and too soon would need to return to the picnic clearing-

That last prompted him to gradually lighten the kiss, until, without jarring her, he could lift his head and study her face while he continued to caress her. He needed to know her thoughts, her reactions, so he would know how and where to recommence when next they met.

When next he managed to whisk her away and trap her in his arms.

Her lashes fluttered her lids opened a fraction. Her eyes, bright silver, met his. Neither of them was breathing all that evenly. The first step toward intimacy—the inital commitment to explore what might be—had definitely been taken; their gazes touched, acknowledged.

Caro drew in a tight breath, eased her hands from his neck, his shoulders, and looked down—at his hand, large, strong, long fingers skillfully caressing her breast, circling her now tightly furled nipple, sending sensation streaking through her, leaving her nerves tight, tense, skittering. Her fine voile dress was no real barrier; taking her pebbled nipple between his fingertips, he gently squeezed.

She sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes, let her head fall back— then forced her lids open again and fixed her gaze on his face. His lean, austerely handsome face. If she could have frowned, she would have; she had to content herself with a studiously blank expression. “I didn’t say you could… do this.”

His hand closed again. “You didn’t say I couldn’t, either.”

A faint frown finally came; she narrowed her eyes on his. “Are you saying I can’t trust you anymore?”

His face hardened, so did his eyes, but his hand never faltered in its languid caressing. He studied her for a moment, then said, “You can trust me—always. That I promise. But I’ll also promise more.” His hand firmed about her breast; his eyes held hers. “I won’t promise to behave as you expect.” His gaze lowered to her lips; he leaned closer. Only as you want. Only as you deserve.“

She would have frowned harder and argued, but he kissed her. Not with ravenous heat, but in a straightforward, deeply satisfying exchange. One that left her social conscience feeling somehow appeased, as if there was no reason she couldn’t simply accept all that had happened between them, adult to adult, and leave it at that.

Despite his high-handed, domineering behavior, she didn’t feel overwhelmed. She knew, absolutely, that he would never hurt or harm her, that if she struggled, he would release her… both actions and words suggested he simply wasn’t going to let her deny him, or herself, purely on the grounds of social strictures.

If she wanted to deny him, she’d need to convince him she really didn’t want to fall in with his plans. Simple enough—except…

Her head was pleasurably swimming, her mind detached, her body warm and heated under his hand.

Suddenly, he broke the kiss. Lifting his head, he looked past her, past the tree. She turned her head, but couldn’t see past the bole.

He’d frozen—all except his fondling fingers. She drew in a tight breath, about to ask what was there—his gaze flicked back to her face, his eyes widening in warning.

Then, swift and silent, he moved, stepping to her side, turning and drawing her with him around the tree; he ended with his back to the bole, more or less to the pond itself, while she stood trapped against him, her back to his chest, facing away from the pond, shielded from whatever danger threatened.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him looking over his, peering around the tree toward the pond. Then he looked back, met her gaze. Lowering his head, he nudged hers until he could whisper in her ear, “Ferdinand. Keep quiet. He doesn’t know we’re here.”

She blinked. He straightened again; she sensed he was keeping watch, yet… while his attention had diverted and his fingers had slowed, they hadn’t stopped. Her skin still felt hot, her breasts tight, her nerves jangling.

Worse, his other hand had risen to minister in apparently absent-minded concert.

It was, she discovered, extremely difficult to think.

Regardless, she couldn’t protest.

Minutes of nerve-tingling tension passed, then the alertness gripping him eased. He turned back to her, leaned close, and whispered, “He’s heading away from us.”

Valiantly ignoring the preoccupation of his hands, she turned and peered past him, and glimpsed Ferdinand striding into the forest, following a path leading away from the pond’s opposite side.

Michael had seen, too. He caught her eye, closed his hands firmly, then eased his hold, trailing his palms down her body as he released her.

She dragged in a fractionally deeper breath.

He studied her eyes, then bent his head and kissed her—one last time. An ending, and a promise—until next time.

Lifting his head, he met her gaze. “We’d better get back.”

She nodded. “Indeed.”

They set out around the pond; when they reached the opening of the path that led back toward the clearing, she paused, looking further around the pond to the path Ferdinand had taken. “He’s going the wrong way.”

Michael met her gaze; his jaw hardened. “He’s a grown man.”

“Yes, but—” She looked down the other path. “You know how easy it is to get lost in here. And if he does wander off and lose his way, the whole company will get caught up trying to find him.‘

She was right. He sighed, and waved toward the other path. “Come on—he can’t be far ahead.”

With a quick smile in acknowledgment of his capitulation, she led the way. Fifty yards on, the path hit a downward slope badly crisscrossed with roots; he stepped past her and went ahead, giving her his hand to ensure she didn’t slip.

They were concentrating on their descent, not speaking but watching their feet, when low voices reached them. They paused, looked ahead; both knew another small clearing opened to the side of the path a little way along.

He glanced back, put his finger to his lips. Frowning, Caro nodded. This was his land, but it wasn’t fenced; he’d never prevented locals from using it. But they’d both caught the furtive note of the murmured conversation; it seemed wise not to walk into a situation where they might not be welcome. Especially not with Caro by his side; there were at least two men, possibly more.

Luckily, it was easy to step off the narrow path, then continue between the trees. The undergrowth was sufficient to screen them. Eventually they reached a spot where they could look through a large bush into the clearing.

In it, Ferdinand stood talking to two men. They were slight, rather weaselly, dressed in threadbare frieze. They were definitely not Ferdinand’s friends; from their interaction, however, it seemed likely they were his employees.

Michael and Caro had arrived too late to hear any of the discussion, just assurances from the weaselly two that they would perform whatever job Ferdinand had hired them for, and Ferdinand’s curt, aristocratic dismissal. That delivered, he turned on his heel and walked back out of the clearing.

They held still and watched him stride away, back toward the pond.

Caro tugged at Michael’s sleeve; he looked back in time to see the two strange men disappearing along another path, one that led to the main road.

Caro opened her mouth—he held up a hand. Waited. Only when he was sure Ferdinand should be far enough away so that he couldn’t hear their voices did he lower his hand and meet Caro’s wide gaze.

“What on earth was all that about?”

“Indeed.” Taking her arm, he guided her back to the path.

“I wondered at first if they could possibly be the men who attacked Miss Trice—although why Ferdinand would be talking to them I can’t imagine—but they were too thin, don’t you think?”

He nodded. They’d been about the same distance from the men who’d attacked Miss Trice; the pair in the clearing had been too short as well. He said so; Caro agreed.

They walked briskly for a while, then she said, “Why would Ferdinand, if he wanted to hire some men, meet them in… well, such secrecy? And even more, why here} We’re miles from Leadbetter Hall.”

The very questions he’d been pondering. “I have no idea.”

The picnic site came into view. They heard voices—the younger guests had returned from their excursion, and their elders had revived. He paused, then stepped sideways off the path into the relative privacy afforded by a large bush.

Tugged after him, Caro looked at him in surprise.

He met her gaze. “I think we can safely conclude that Ferdinand is up to something—possibly something the duke and duchess, at least, might not be aware of or approve of.”

She nodded. “But what?”

“Until we know more, we’ll have to keep our eyes open, and be on guard.” He bent his head and kissed her—one last, very last kiss.

He’d intended it to remind her, to stir her memories back to life for just an instant; unfortunately, her response had the same effect on him, and left him aching.

Biting back a curse, he lifted his head, met her eyes. “Remember— when it comes to Ferdinand, be on guard.”

She studied his eyes, his face, then smiled reassuringly and patted his shoulder. “Yes, of course.”

With that, she turned, stepped back onto the path, and led the way into the clearing. His gaze locking on her swaying hips, he mentally swore, then followed, strolling as nonchalantly as he could in her wake.