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 heat 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.
6
At least Caro had let him drive her home without further argument. With the morning bright about him, Michael swung Atlas down the Bramshaw lane and let his mind revisit the final scenes of the previous night.
They’d seen Miss Trice into the vicarage, into Reverend Trice’s shocked and solicitous care. Between them they’d explained; once assured Miss Trice was indeed unharmed and did not wish the doctor fetched, they’d left.
Almost absentmindedly, Caro had allowed him to hand her into the curricle; she’d made no comment when a few minutes later, he’d turned in between the Bramshaw House gates. The winding drive was lined with old trees; in this season it was heavily shadowed along most of its length. Pulling up before the front steps, he’d walked around, handed Caro down, then escorted her to the door.
Drawing in a deep breath, she’d turned to him; with her face lit by the porch lamp, he’d realized she wasn’t, as he’d supposed, affected by shock. Instead, she was puzzled, as puzzled as he. “What a very odd affair.”
“Indeed.” They’d both turned as Catten opened the door.
She’d held out her hand. “Thank you for seeing me home. As it transpired, it was a stroke of good fortune, especially for Miss Trice.”
Frustration had bloomed. He was glad they’d been in time to save Miss Trice, but…he’d held on to Caro’s hand until her fingers had fluttered and he’d once again had her complete attention. Still he’d waited, until she’d looked up and met his eyes. “Tell Geoffrey.”
Her eyes had narrowed at his tone, but she’d nodded—somewhat regally. “Of course.”
“Promise.”
At that, her eyes had flashed. “Naturally I’ll tell him—immediately, in fact. Good gracious! Those men might be hiding on our land. With Elizabeth at home, I’m sure Geoffrey will ensure our gardeners, workers, and woodsmen are alerted.”
Geoffrey on guard was what he’d wanted; biting his tongue, he’d accepted her assurance and released her. “Good night.”
She’d left him with a distinctly haughty nod. He’d headed home, aware as he’d tooled through the night that no matter what else she’d realized, she hadn’t yet divined his true direction.
If she had, she wouldn’t have jibbed at his protecting her. To his mind, protecting her now figured more as exercising a right he’d claimed rather than as some polite offer it fell to her whim to accept or decline.
In that respect, there was no longer any choice, any decision for her to make.
A lark’s call drew him back to the present. The outlying cottages of the village appeared; he slowed Atlas to a trot.
He’d intended to let matters fall out as they would, to allow Caro to realize his interest in her in her own time—he had the whole summer to secure her as his bride; there hadn’t seemed any reason to rush her—yet by the time he’d risen from the breakfast table that morning, he’d accepted that that approach would no longer do.
Aside from all else, he’d discovered he had far more in common with his brother-in-law than he’d supposed.
That Devil would shield Honoria from any and all danger regardless of whether she wished to be shielded was beyond question. Knowing how much that irked his sister, yet equally aware of how ruthless Devil could be, and indeed had been on that point, he’d often wondered at the compulsion that drove his brother-in-law, or rather the source of it. On most other matters, Devil was a willing slave to Honoria’s wishes.
Now he had caught the same disease. Certainly, he was now victim to the same compulsion he’d long recognized in Devil.
He’d spent a restless night; by the time he’d finished breakfast this morning, he’d accepted that the hollowness centered somewhere below his breastbone wasn’t due to hunger.
Luckily, Caro had already been married once; she would doubtless take his reaction—his susceptibility—in her stride.
That, however, presupposed she’d recognized and accepted the true nature of his interest in her.
He was on his way to speak with her, to ensure that whatever else occurred between them, she was completely clear and unequivocally convinced on that point.
On the fact that he wanted her as his wife.
Leaving Atlas in the care of Geoffrey’s stableman, he walked up to the house through the gardens. As he started across the last stretch of lawn leading to the terrace, a distinct but distant snip, followed by a rustle, had him glancing to the left.
Fifty yards away, Caro stood in the center of the sunken rose garden clipping deadheads from the burgeoning bushes.
Garden shears tightly gripped, Caro snipped with abandon, plucking the sheared hips from the heavily laden bushes and dropping or tossing them to the flagstone path. Hendricks, Geoffrey’s gardener, would tidy up later and be grateful for her industry; meanwhile, attacking the bushes and cutting away the faded blooms, encouraging the rampant canes to flower even more profusely, was distinctly satisfying. Oddly calming, in some strange way soothi
ng the panicky irritation she felt whenever she thought of Michael.
Which was far too often for her liking.
She had no idea what the feeling presaged, no prior experience to call on, but instinct warned she stood on tricky ground where he was concerned, and she’d long ago learned to trust her instincts.
The discovery that she couldn’t be sure of managing him, indeed was no longer sure she’d successfully managed him at any point, had undermined her usual confidence. Her exasperated capitulation the previous evening, wise though hindsight had proved it to be, was another cause for worry—since when had she become so susceptible to the pressuring persuasions of a presumptuous male?
True, he’d been absolutely determined, but why had she succumbed? Given in? Surrendered?
Frowning direfully, she viciously decapitated another shriveled set of blooms.
She paused, frown fading…and felt a tingle of warmth, felt a lick of rising excitement frizzle along her nerves.
Lungs tightening, she looked up—and saw her nemesis, large as life, lounging against the stone arch, watching her. Inwardly she swore in Portuguese; the effect he had on her—whatever it was—was only getting worse. Now she could feel his gaze across a distance of ten paces!
A smile curved his lips. He pushed away from the arch and walked toward her.
Ruthlessly suppressing her wayward senses, she responded with a perfectly gauged smile, one that was welcoming, suitable for an old friend, yet clearly stated that that was the limit of their association. “Good morning—are you looking for Geoffrey? I believe he’s gone to look over the south fields.”
His smile deepened; his eyes remained fixed on hers. “No. I’m not after Geoffrey.”
His long, easy strides carried him to within a foot of her skirts before he halted. She let her eyes widen, outwardly laughingly surprised—inwardly starting to panic. He surprised her even more—panicked her even more—by reaching out, plucking the shears from her right hand while with his other hand he captured her fingers.
Her gloved fingers, she reminded herself, struggling to subdue her escalating tension.