Her gloved fingers, she reminded herself, struggling to subdue her escalating tension.
He smiled into her eyes. “It’s you I came to see.”
He raised her hand; thanking heaven for her gardening gloves, she allowed one brow to rise, waiting for him to realize he couldn’t kiss her fingers. Amusement gleamed in the sky blue of his eyes, then he turned her hand, long fingers flicking the wrist-slit of the glove wide, bent his head, and placed a kiss—a disturbingly firm, distractingly hot, far-too-knowing kiss—directly over the spot beneath which her pulse raced.
For one instant, giddiness threatened, then she snapped her gaze to his face, watched him reading her reaction, saw the satisfaction in his eyes.
Indeed?“ Preserving her expression of polite friendliness required considerable effort. She retrieved her hand; she didn’t need to tug—he released it readily.
“Indeed. Are you busy?”
He didn’t glance around at the severely denuded bushes, for which shle grudgingly accorded him several points. A lady of her standing vis-iting her brother’s house… if she was filling her hours deadheading roses, there was obviously nothing urgent on her plate.
“No.” Determined to meet his challenge, whatever it might be, she smiled. “Did you think of some suggestion for the ball?”
His eyes met hers; she tried but couldn’t read them. His expression remained relaxed, unthreatening. “In a manner of speaking. But come, let’s walk. There are a number of matters I’d like to discuss with you.”
He tossed the shears into the trug by her feet, and offered his arm. She had to take it and stroll beside him, and fight to appear unaffected. Her nerves were screamingly aware of his physical presence, of his strength, and that disturbing, distracting masculine aura that seemed, at least to her fevered imagination, to shimmer about her—reaching for her, enfolding her, as if it would surround and trap her.
She gave herself a mental shake, looked up as he said, “About Elizabeth.”
The words focused her wits wonderfully. “What about Elizabeth?”
He glanced at her. “I realize you—you, she, and Campbell—knew my intentions, or rather the possibility of my having intentions in that direction. I wondered how you knew.”
It was a reasonable question, albeit one he couldn’t have asked of anyone but a trusted friend. She looked down as they walked, rapidly considering how much she should reveal, deciding that in this case, the truth would be wisest. She met his gaze. “Amazingly enough, it was Geoffrey who first alerted us.”
“Geoffrey?” His incredulity was unfeigned. “How could he have heard anything?”
She smiled, genuinely this time. “I know it’s hard to imagine, but I don’t think he knew anything of your intentions. As I understand it—and no, in the circumstances, I haven’t broached the subject with him—it was his intentions he was pursuing. When Elizabeth returned from London and admitted she hadn’t developed a tendre for any gentleman of the ton, Geoffrey turned his mind to what I believe he thought would be an advantageous match. He tried to sound out Elizabeth, but…”
She caught his eye. “Geoffrey singing any gentleman’s praises was bound to put the wind up Elizabeth.”
He raised his brows. “Especially given her attachment to Campbell.”
She smiled, commending his intelligence. “Precisely.”
As she watched, his eyes widened, his gaze momentarily distant, then he glanced at her. “Just as well I didn’t sound out Geoffrey over the possibility I came here to assess.”
“Indeed not—he would have taken the bit between his teeth and run.”
“Which would have been deuced awkward.” He caught her gaze. “It appears I have to thank you for stopping me from speaking with him—that was why you came to see me that first day, wasn’t it?”
A betraying warmth crept into her cheeks. “Yes.” She looked away, shrugged. “Of course, I didn’t intend to make quite such a dramatic entrance.”
The comment reminded Michael of that earlier incident; a shaft of pure fear lanced through him. He damped it down, pointing out to his newfound vulnerability that she was here, walking, warm and feminine, by his side.
They strolled for a few paces, then he murmured, “But you—you knew more definitely about my direction. How did you learn of it?” He’d decided the simplest way to make her see and appreciate the Tightness of his new direction was to lead her mind along the same track his had taken.
“Elizabeth sent frantic summonses to me and Edward—I was staying with Augusta in Derbyshire. We both thought Elizabeth had misinterpreted, so we stopped in London on the way down. There, however, Edward learned about your pending promotion and the Prime Minister’s directive. So I visited your aunt Harriet and she told me of your intentions regarding Elizabeth.”
“I see.” He made a mental note to have a word to his aunt, but reading between the lines, it seemed Caro already knew all she needed to know about his present state and the reason behind his sincere need of a suitable wife.
Indeed, he couldn’t see any benefit in explaining further. At least not in words.
He glanced at her. The summerhouse built out over the ornamental lake—his chosen destination—was still some way ahead.
She looked up, caught his eye, and smiled—perfectly genuinely. “I’m so glad you understood about Elizabeth, that you and she really wouldn’t suit.” Her smile deepened. “I’m relieved and very grateful.”
He returned her smile with one he hoped wasn’t wolfish. He wasn’t above exploiting her gratitude—in her own best interests, of course.
And his.
He searched for topics to keep her distracted until they gained the summerhouse’s relative privacy. “I presume you have hopes for Campbell. He’ll need to advance further before he and Elizabeth can hope to secure Geoffrey’s blessing.”
“Indeed.” She looked down, then said, “I was thinking of speaking to a few people when Parliament reconvenes. If there’s to be a reshuffle, that might well be a propitious time.”
He nodded. Saw no reason not to add, “If you like, I could sound out Hemmings at the Home Office, and there’s Curlew at Customs and Revenue.”
She looked up, her radiant smile dawning. “Would you?”
Taking her elbow, he guided her up the summerhouse’s steps. “Campbell’s experience is sound; I’ll watch him while I’m here and make my own assessment, but with both Camden’s and your impri- matur, it shouldn’t take much effort to set his feet on the next rung.”
Caro laughed, softly cynical. “True, but it does take connections.” I Walking across the summerhouse to where open arches with low railings looked out over the lake, she halted, turned, and smiled. “Thank you.”
He hesitated, his blue gaze on her, then walked slowly toward her.
Her lungs locked; with every step he took, the vise clamped about her chest tightened, until she felt light-headed. In the most severely lecturing tones she could muster, she told herself not to be stupid, to simply keep breathing, to hide her silly sensitivity at all costs—how mortifying if he should realize…
This was Michael—he posed no threat to her.
Her senses refused to listen.
To her mounting surprise, the closer he got, the more clearly she could read the intentness in his gaze. Realized with a jolt that he’d dropped his politician’s mask, that he was looking at her as if…
He didn’t stop his prowling advance.
Full realization struck. She felt her eyes widen. Abruptly, she swung around. Gestured to the lake. “It’s a… very pleasant view.”
She’d barely managed to squeeze the words out. She waited, tense, almost quivering.
“Indeed.” The deep murmur stirred the fine hairs at her nape.
Her senses flared; he was like a caressing flame burning at her back. So near. About to reach around and engulf her. Trap her
Panic struck, full blown.
“Ah”—she stepped quickly to her right, walked to the f
ar side of the next arch—“if you stand over here, you can see down the lake to where the rhododenrons are in bloom.”
She didn’t dare look his way. “And look!” She pointed. “There’s a family of ducks. There’s”—she paused to count—“twelve ducklings.”
Senses at full stretch, she waited, mentally scanning for movement from her left.
Suddenly realized he’d circled to her right!
“Caro.”
She swallowed a shriek; she was so tense she felt dizzy. He was beside and just behind her; stepping left, she whirled. Her back to the other side of the arch, she stared at him. “What—just what do you think you’re about?”
Given her panic, her wide eyes, manufacturing a scowl was beyond her. Besides, this was Michael…
Beyond her control, puzzlement and a certain hurt filled her eyes.
He’d halted; he stood perfectly still, his blue gaze on her face, searching, studying… the impression she received through the jibber-ing of her senses was that he was as puzzled as she.
He tilted his head; eyes narrowing, he shifted to face her.
She managed to drag in a breath. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Her tone carried her real question; why was he panicking her, frightening her—destroying the easy if distant, comfortable friendship they had in the past, more or less until now, shared?
His lashes flickered, then he sighed and refocused on her face.
Abruptly, she realized he was as tense as she.
“I was, as it happens, trying to get you to stand still long enough to get my hands on you.”
The answer sent her panic soaring, yet even so she could barely believe her ears. She blinked, managed to summon the icily haughty cloak she desperately needed. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the Merry Widow. I do not, ever, play games of that sort.” Hearing the words, and her firm tone, bolstered her courage; she lifted her chin. “Not with you—not with any man.”
He didn’t move, but continued to regard her with a frown in his eyes. A long moment passed, then he asked, “What made you think I was interested in any game?”
A disorienting suspicion that they were talking at cross-purposes assailed her—yet she was sure they were not. There was a light in his eyes, an intent she recognized…
Michael took advantage of her confusion, taking two steps to stand directly before her. She tensed; before she could bolt, he closed his hands about her waist.
Anchoring her before him with the frame of the arch at her back, he locked eyes with her. “I have no interest whatever in playing at anything.”
Between his hands, she quivered, but her physical panic, although very much present, was having to fight a strong vein of astonishment. She’d lifted her hands, presumably to hold him off; they fluttered to rest, passive, on his chest.
He ignored the oddly evocative touch, waited, gave her time to calm enough to remember to breathe, to study his face, accept that he had her caught, but that he wasn’t to be classed with any of the others who’d pursued her. He was operating on a different plane with a different goal in mind. He watched her thoughts shimmer through her eyes, all but saw her gather her wits.
She moistened her lips, glanced fleetingly at his. “What, then?”
He smiled, slowly, and watched her attention fix on his lips. He bent closer, lowered his head—distracted, she didn’t immediately notice.
Then she did. She sucked in a breath and looked up—from a dis-tance of mere inches met his eyes.
He caught her gaze. “I’m in deadly earnest.”
Her eyes flared, then her lids fell as he lowered his head the last inch, and kissed her.
Pressed his lips to hers, fully expecting some degree of chilly resis-tance, fully prepared to overcome it, overwhelm it. Instead… while she certainly froze, and didn’t respond, there was no resistance in her either.
Nothing to overcome, to overwhelm, to sweep away.
No attempt to hold aloof, much less break away.
No icy, haughty chill. Nothing. Simply nothing.
Caution whispered through his mind, laid a restraining hand on his intentions. Puzzled, he moved his lips gently, teasingly, over hers, trying through that simple touch to gauge, to sense her feelings. Instinct directed him to keep his hands locked at her waist, at least until he understood her, and her unexpected, elusive response.
It came eventually, so hesitant and uncertain he nearly drew back—just to check that this was Caro. Caro—the confidently assured ambassador’s wife of more than a decade’s standing.
The woman in his arms… if he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn she’d never been kissed. He kept the caress light, lips skating, brushing, beckoning… it was like breathing life into a statue.
She was cool, but not cold, as if waiting for warmth to find her and bring her to life. The fact focused him as nothing else could have— certainly as no other woman ever had; what he was discovering through the kiss, through the slow gradual warming of her lips, all he learned from exploring their rosebud softness, all he suddenly realized from the tentative pressure she eventually returned, was so utterly out of kilter with what he’d expected—with what any man might have expected— she seized and fixed his attention completely.
After that first, brief, uncertain response, she stopped—waited. He realized she was waiting for him to break the kiss, raise his head, and let her go. He debated for a heartbeat, then, moving slowly, angled his head and increased the pressure of his lips on hers. If he let her go too soon… he was politician enough to see the danger.
So he teased and cajoled, used every wile he possessed to draw a response again from her. Her hands shifted, restless, on his chest, then she gripped his lapels and abruptly kissed him back, more firmly, more definitely. A real kiss.
Got you.
He swooped and returned the caress, quickly engaged her in a real exchange—kiss for kiss, sliding, tempting pressure for pressure. While she was distracted, he eased his fingers, and slowly slid his hands around, loosely—carefully—taking her in his arms. He wanted her there, secure, before he let her escape from the kiss.
Caro’s head was starting to swim. Quite how she’d got trapped into this strange kissing game she didn’t know. She couldn’t kiss—she was perfectly aware of that—yet here she was, leaning against his chest, her lips beneath his… kissing him.
She should stop. Some panicky little voice kept telling her she should, that she’d regret it if she didn’t, yet she’d never been kissed like this before—so gently, so… temptingly, as if her response was something he actually wanted.
It was strange. Of the others who’d pursued her, few had ever got close enough to steal a kiss. The handful that had had wanted to devour her; her revulsion had been immediate and ingrained—she’d never questioned it, never felt the need to.
Yet now, here, in the safety of her childhood home with Michael… was it simply that combination of the familiar that had failed to trigger her usual reaction, that instead had left her open to…
This strange and intoxicating exchange.
This tempting and beguiling exchange.
Just how tempting, how intoxicating, how thoroughly beguiling she learned a moment later, when fraction by fraction he slowly drew back, until their lips parted and he lifted his head. Not far, just an inch or so; enough for her to raise her lids and look into the bright blue of his eyes half hidden behind the tracery of his lashes. Just enough for her to draw in a quick breath, and realize his arms were around her—not crushing her or mauling her, yet trapping her all the same.
Enough for her to experience a rush of pure impulse—crazy and thrilling and wholly wanton—that had her pressing closer, stretching up, and touching her lips once again to his.
In the instant she did, she sensed his pleasure. A definite masculine gloat that he’d tempted her so far.
What was she doing?
Before she could pull back, he tightened his arms about her, held her close as he too
k over, and kissed her again.
Slow, easy, a warm and confident caress. His tongue touched her lips, traced, tantalized… she parted them, tentatively, curious… not even truly sure it was by her own will and not his.
His tongue traced the soft inner faces of her lips, not so much bold as assured, certain. Then he probed further, found her tongue and stroked, caressed…
Warmth seeped through her, unraveling her tensed nerves, soothing and smoothing away her hesitations, her uncertainties, her fears…
Michael felt her relax, felt the last of her coldness melt away. Grappled with his desire to take more, to press further, to claim, caged it so artfully she wouldn’t know it was there. Regardless of how experienced his rational mind told him she had to be, his instincts knew better than to scare her—to at this stage give her any excuse to flee.
It was he who called an end to the engagement; he was gratified that that was so—she was so caught, now so involved in the pleasurable exchange that returning to the real world—the world in which she was the virtuous Merry Widow—had temporarily lost all appeal.
Drawing back, feeling their lips part, hearing the soft exhalation she gave as they did, he had to fight to hide his triumph.
He let her ease back, steadied her within his arms until she was firm on her feet. She blinked and her eyes met his. A frown came to life, slowly grew until it shadowed the silvery depths of her gaze.
Then she blushed, glanced away and stepped back—remembered she couldn’t and stepped to the side. He let his arms fall, turned with her, trying to read her face, wanting to know…
Caro sensed his gaze, forced herself to halt, draw in a huge breath, and meet it. She frowned, warningly, at him. “So now you know.”
He blinked. A second passed. “Know what?”
Looking ahead, nose in the air, she headed for the summerhouse’s door. “That I can’t kiss.” It was imperative she bring this interlude to a rapid end.
The Ideal Bride (Cynster Novels) Page 11
