Brows rising, jaw firming, Michael looked Caro. “In Camden’s will, was the house and its contents left to you outright, or on your death does it revert to his estate or go to someone else?”
She met his gaze, then blinked, slowly. Glanced at Edward. “I really can’t remember. Can you?”
Edward shook his head. “Other than that it went to you…I’m not sure I ever knew more.”
“Do you have a copy of the will?”
Caro nodded. “It’s in Half Moon Street.”
“With Camden’s papers?”
“Not in the same place, but yes, they, too, are in the house.”
Michael briefly considered the alternatives, then evenly stated, “In that case, I believe we need to return to London. Immediately.”
16
In the end, the problem wasn’t convincing Caro to go, but convincing Edward to stay.
“If you don’t,” Caro warned, “then Elizabeth will come, too—even if I don’t take her, she’ll invent some excuse to come up and stay at Angela’s or Augusta’s. She has open invitations in case she needs to shop, and she now has sufficient acquaintances in town to convince Geoffrey to let her go up, no matter what we might say when we leave. So!” She paused for breath; arms folded, she halted in her pacing and looked sternly down at Edward, still seated in the chair. “You, Edward dear, must remain here.”
“I’m supposed to be your bloody secretary.” Edward’s jaw was set. He looked to Michael, something he had thus far managed not to do. “You must see my duty is to remain with her—it would be better if I come up to town and help you keep an eye on her.”
He doggedly refused to look at Caro, refused to notice her narrowing eyes.
Michael sighed. “Unfortunately, I agree with Caro.” He pretended not to see the startled look Caro threw him. “Given the potential danger, we really can’t have Elizabeth involved. She’s known as Caro’s niece; it’s obvious Caro is fond of her.” He paused, held Edward’s gaze. “As Caro’s secretary, it’s your job to aid her, and in this instance, strange though it may seem, you really can help best by keeping Elizabeth out of London.”
Edward’s determination wavered; Michael quietly added, “With the vital clue—whether it’s in Camden’s papers or in his will—in London, we cannot afford to give whoever’s been pursuing Caro an avenue through which to coerce her—we don’t need to give them any hostage to fortune.”
The prospect of Elizabeth as a hostage tipped the scales. Michael had known it would; he understood Edward’s dilemma, also his decision.
“Very well.” Distinctly grim, Edward conceded. “I’ll remain”—his lips twisted, briefly cynical—“and endeavor to keep Elizabeth distracted.”
Caro began packing immediately. Michael remained for dinner to assist in excusing her whirlwind departure, sans Edward, to Geoffrey.
As expected, once apprised of Michael’s intention to accompany Caro, having business to attend to in the capital himself, Geoffrey accepted the arrangement without quibble.
Michael took his leave as soon as the covers were drawn; he had to pack and ensure matters he’d expected to be at home to oversee were appropriately delegated. Caro, off upstairs to finish her own packing, saw him into the front hall. She gave him her hand. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”
Her fingers felt so delicate in his; raising her hand, he placed a quick kiss on them, then released her. “At eight. Don’t be late.”
She smiled a very feminine smile and turned for the stairs.
He watched her climb them, then walked out and around to the stables.
Three hours later, he retraced his steps.
Quietly. It was close to midnight; the house was dark, silent under the fitful shadows thrown by the large oaks along the drive. Staying on the grass, he skirted the forecourt, circling to the west wing and the room at its end.
Caro’s bedchamber. He’d learned its location on the day of her ball when she’d sent him traipsing through the house.
He’d finished packing an hour ago. He’d intended to go to bed and sleep; instead, here he was, slinking through the shadows like some lovelorn Romeo, and he wasn’t even sure why. He was hardly a callow youth in the throes of his first romance, yet when it came to Caro, the feelings she evoked left him, if not in quite the same giddy and reckless state, then certainly compelled to actions and deeds his rational, experienced brain knew to be rash—and potentially far too revealing.
That that knowledge held no power to stop him was a revelation in itself. The risk of revealing too much, of leaving himself exposed and therefore vulnerable, barely registered against his need to know, not logically or rationally but physically via the immediate fact, that she was safe.
After hauling her out of the currents of the weir, after discovering the neatly sawn posts, he wasn’t going to get any sleep unless she lay beside him under his hand.
Night, gently cool, engulfed the scene, settling, soothing; other than the rustle of some small creature foraging through the bushes, no sound disturbed the stillness. He’d left Atlas in the nearest paddock, left his saddle slung over the fence beneath a tree.
Rounding the west wing, he paused. Through the shadows, he studied the narrow balcony that the French doors of Caro’s room gave onto. The balcony served only her room; built above the parlor’s bay window, it could only be reached from this side.
He squinted at the wall to the left. His memory hadn’t lied; a creeper grew there, thick and old. The west-facing wall caught the sun; over the years, the creeper had grown to the roof—past the balcony.
Quitting the dense shadows beneath the trees, he carefully crossed the path circling the house. Picking his way through the plants in the garden bed, he reached the creeper.
The base was over a foot thick, gnarled and solid. He looked up at the balcony, then sighed, wedged his boot into a suitable fork, and prayed the creeper was strong enough to take his weight.
Caro was on the brink of sleep when a muffled curse floated through her mind. It wasn’t one she normally used…puzzled, her mind refocused, turning from the billows of slumber to wonder….
A scrape reached her ears. Followed by another muffled curse.
She sat up and looked across the room to where she’d left the French doors to her balcony open to let in the elusive breeze. The lace curtains drifted, nothing looked amiss…then she heard a crack—a twig or branch—followed by a soft oath she couldn’t make out.
Her heart leapt to her throat.
She slid from the bed. A heavy silver candlestick a foot tall stood on her dressing table; she reached for it, hefted it, taking comfort from its weight, then glided silently to the French doors, paused, then moved out onto the balcony beyond.
Whoever was climbing up the old wisteria was going to get a surprise.
A hand slapped onto the balustrade; she jumped. It was a male right hand, reaching, grabbing hold. It tensed, tendons shifting, muscles bunching as the man gripped, and pulled himself up—
Raising the candlestick, grimly determined, she stepped forward, intending to bring the heavy base down on the man’s hand—
A gold signet ring winked in the weak light.
She blinked, peered, bent, and from a foot away looked more closely…
A vision flashed into her mind—of that hand, with that gold ring on the little finger, cupping her bare breast.
“Michael?” Lowering the candlestick, straightening, she stepped to the balustrade and peered over. Through the shifting shadows, she saw his head, the familiar set of his shoulders. “What on earth are you doing?”
He muttered something unintelligible, then more clearly said, “Stand back.”
She took two steps back, watched as, both hands now locked on the balustrade, he hauled himself up, then swung a leg over the wide sill and sat astride.
Catching his breath, Michael looked at her, staring, not surprisingly bemused, at him, then he noticed the candlestick. “What were you intending to do with that?”
br />
“Give whoever was sneaking up to my balcony a nasty surprise.”
His lips twisted. “I didn’t think of that.” Swinging his other leg over, he stood, then leaned back against the balustrade as she stepped near and peered over.
“You didn’t plan awfully well at all—wisteria isn’t very strong.”
Grimacing, he relieved her of the candelestick. “So I discovered. I’m afraid it took rather a beating.”
“How am I supposed to explain that to Hendricks—Geoffrey’s gardener?” Caro looked at him, found his gaze tracing down her body.
“You won’t be here for him to ask.” The words were vague; his gaze was still traveling down. It reached her feet; he hesitated, then slowly started upward again.
“And how would it have looked if you’d got caught? The local Member of Parliament climbing to a lady’s window…” She stopped, intrigued. Waiting with feigned patience until his gaze returned to her eyes, she arched a brow.
His lips eased. “I’d imagined you as a demure cotton buttoned-to-the-throat type.”
Raising both brows haughtily, she turned and walked back into her room. “I used to be. This”—she gestured to the delicate silk negligee gracing her curves—“was Camden’s idea.”
Following in her wake, Michael tore his gaze from the filmy confection that floated, flirted, a translucent sop to modesty, about her transparently naked form. “Camden?”
Even through the dimness, he could make out her peaked nipples, the arousing curves of breast and hip and the long lines of her thighs. Her arms were bare, as was most of her back, the ivory silk shifting provocatively over the globes of her bottom as she led him into her bedchamber.
Camden must have been a glutton for self-punishment.
“He said it was in case the embassy caught on fire and I had to rush out en déshabillé.” Halting, Caro faced him, met his eyes. “But I think it was more a case of what the servants would think. More a matter of protecting my standing than his.” Her lips quirked self-deprecatingly. “After all,” she murmured, fingers flicking the gown, “he never saw them.”
Halting before her, he looked into her eyes. Then bent his head. “More fool him.”
He kissed her, and she kissed him back, but then, one hand on his cheek, drew back to look into his eyes. “Why are you here?”
Closing his hands about her hips, he drew her nearer. “I couldn’t sleep.” The truth, if only part of it.
She searched his eyes; her lips curved teasingly. She let him settle her hips against him, then seductively shifted. “And you expect to sleep in my bed?”
“Yes.” From now until forever. He shrugged. “Once we’ve indulged”—bending his head, he pressed a kiss beneath her ear, murmured even more softly—“once I’ve slaked my lust for you and sated my appetite”—lifting his head, he looked down at her—“I’ll sleep perfectly well.” With you lying sated beside me.
Brows high, she studied his eyes, then the curve of her lips deepened. “We’d better to get into bed then.” Pushing back in his arms, her gaze dropped to his chest; her hands slid down from his shoulders. “You’ll have to take off your clothes.”
He caught her hands before she could embark on any fiendish—and doomed to be short-lived—game. The sight of her in her excuse for a negligee—and it seemed likely all her nightwear was of similar ilk, a point he didn’t at that moment wish to dwell on—let alone the feel of her sinking, then sliding against him, had teased him from mere arousal to throbbing rigidity. He didn’t need further encouragement. “I’ll undress while you take off that creation—if I touch it, I’m bound to tear it. Once we’re both naked, we can start from there.”
Her laugh was sultry. “If you’re sure you don’t need any help?”
“Quite sure.” He released her. She stepped back. Dragging in a breath, he moved to the end of her bed; leaning against it, he reached for his boots.
Hands rising to the shoulder clasps anchoring her nightgown, Caro murmured, “I’d always assumed these garments were designed so a man could remove them quickly.”
“Those garments”—boots off, he straightened, hands rising to his cravat; his tones were distinctly strained—“were designed to drive men into a heightened state of lust in which, beyond the reach of sanity, they rip said garments off.”
She laughed again, amazed that she could, that her heart felt so light even while her nerves were tightening. Two clicks and her negligee was free; the silk slithered down her body, pooling at her feet. “Well, you’re in no danger now.”
Shrugging out of his shirt, he glanced at her. “Much you know.” His gaze felt like flame, caressing, burning. Emboldened, she bent and scooped the negligee up, tossed it on her dressing stool.
He looked away, flung his shirt aside, then, as if desperate, stripped off his breeches. Sending them spinning to join the rest of his clothes, he turned and reached for her.
She went into his arms, all laughter fading as their skins touched, and she felt his heat, felt his need—without thought gave herself up to it. To him.
Gave him her mouth and exulted when he took, sank into him, gloried in his ravenous, ravishing response. His hands roamed, not gentle but with undisguised yearning, with a heated hunger she shared.
That grew with every breath, with every gasp, every wickedly evocative caress.
Burying her hands in his hair, she clutched, arched against him, was only dimly aware when he lifted her and laid her on her sheets; she was caught in the flames, overwhelmed by their greedy heat, empty, aching, wanting.
His weight as he moved over her was a giddy relief, then he parted her thighs, pressed between, and entered her.
Thrust deep and joined with her.
Her gasp shivered through the night, a silver echo about them; eyes locked with hers, he thrust deeper still, then he bent his head, sealed her lips with his, and moved within her. Powerfully.
Unrestrained yet controlled, he whirled her into the dance her body and senses craved, that some part of her ached for. That her long-buried needs and wants, at last free, longed for. He wrapped her in dreams of hot skin slickly sliding, tongues sensuously tangling, muscled hardness and flushed softness supplely and intimately twining.
She arched beneath him, her body straining against his; he held her down and drove deeper, harder. Faster as she rose on the crest of that familiar wave, reaching higher, further, until it broke.
With a cry that he drank, she tumbled from the peak into his waiting arms.
Michael caught her, held her close, spread her thighs wider and sank deeper into her scalding heat, driving faster, harder, until her body claimed him and he followed her into sweet oblivion.
Later, he lifted from her; slumping beside her, relaxed, every muscle boneless with sated languor, he realized in the instant before sleep overcame him that his instincts had been right.
This was where he’d needed to spend the night—in Caro’s bed, with her asleep beside him. One arm slung over her waist, he closed his eyes.
And slept.
He had to scramble the next morning to avoid the maids, both at Bramshaw House and the Manor. Returning to Bramshaw as he’d promised at eight o’clock, he found Caro’s traveling carriage waiting in the forecourt, the team between the shafts restless and ready to go.
Unfortunately for them all, while Caro herself was ready, the packing and stowing of her numerous boxes and valises had only just begun. Michael had had his groom drive him over in his curricle, his two cases strapped on behind; directing the two insignificant cases be placed alongside the mountain of Caro’s luggage, he strolled to where she stood on the porch in conference with Catten and her not-so-young Portuguese maid.
Catten bowed in welcome; the maid bobbed, but the glance she threw him was severe.
Caro beamed, which was all he truly cared about.
“As you see”—she gestured to the footmen ferrying her luggage to the carriage—“we’re ready—almost. This should take no more than half
an hour.”
He’d expected as much; he returned her smile. “No matter—I need to speak with Edward.”
“He’ll be supervising Elizabeth’s piano practice, I expect.”
With a nod, he turned away. “I’ll find him.”
He did, as predicted in the drawing room. A look summoned Edward from the piano; Elizabeth smiled, but continued to play. Edward joined him as he crossed the drawing room; at his intimation, they walked out onto the terrace.
He halted, but didn’t immediately speak. Edward stopped beside him. “Last-minute instructions?”
Michael glanced at him. “No.” He hesitated, then said, “More in the nature of forward planning.” Before Edward could respond, he went on, “I want to ask you a question to which I would obviously like an answer, but if you feel you can’t, for whatever reason, divulge the information, I will understand.”
Edward was a skilled political aide; his “Oh?” was noncommittal.
Hands sunk in his pockets, Michael looked out over the lawn. “Caro’s relationship with Camden—what was it?”
After Caro’s explanation of her negligees, he had to know.
He’d chosen his words carefully; they revealed nothing specific, yet made clear that he knew what that relationship hadn’t been.
Which, of course, raised the question of how he knew.
Silence stretched; he let it. He didn’t expect Edward to reveal anything about Caro or Camden readily, yet he hoped Edward would allow for the fact that while Camden was dead, Caro wasn’t.
Eventually, Edward cleared his throat. He, too, looked out over the lawn. “I’m very fond of Caro, as you know….” After a moment, he continued, his tone that of one reporting, “It’s common practice for all pertinent information about an ambassador’s life, including his marriage, to be passed from each ambassadorial aide to his replacement. It’s considered the sort of thing that might, in certain circumstances, be vital to know. When I took up my post in Lisbon, my predecessor informed me that it was common knowledge among the household that Caro and Camden never shared a bed.”