The conversational reins firmly in her grasp, she set out to create her field of battle.
Michael let her rattle on as she would, increasingly certain her peripatetic discourse wasn’t as lacking in direction as it seemed. Regardless of her ultimate goal, her observations were accurate, often cannily acute; when she directed a specific question his way, and actually paused to give him a chance to answer, it was on a s
ubject that was a diplomatic minefield. Their ensuing comments evolved into a discussion of some depth.
After a while, she rose; still talking, she paced, circling the chaise, then sank down onto it once more. He didn’t stir, but watched her, conscious of the intellectual challenge of dealing with her on more than one level simultaneously. Indeed, on more than two. He was perfectly aware there was more going on than the obvious, and equally certain she was determinedly ignoring at least one thread in their interaction.
Finally, relaxed once more on the chaise, she spread her hands and asked directly, “Well, will you help?”
He met her gaze. “On two conditions.”
A sudden wariness slid behind her lovely eyes; she blinked and it was replaced by an expecting-to-be-amused smile. “Conditions? Good heavens! What?”
He smiled, striving to make the expression as unthreatening as he could, not entirely sure he’d succeeded. “One—it’s too lovely a day to spend sitting inside. Let’s take this discussion on a stroll through the gardens. Two”—he held her gaze—“that you’ll stay for lunch.”
She blinked, slowly; he was very sure she was, most definitely, wary of him physically. Of getting physically close. He knew of only one way to address such a problem, and she’d handed him the solution on a platter.
Having set the stage herself, she couldn’t now not play; her smile deepening, she refocused on his face. “Very well—if you insist.”
He fought to stop his smile from deepening. “Oh, I do.”
She rose; so did he, but he turned aside to the bellpull to summon Carter and instruct him about luncheon, giving her the chance to escape onto the terrace.
When he followed her out, she was standing at the top of the steps facing the front lawn. Her hands were clasped before her; her shoulders rose as she drew in a deep breath.
He moved to stand beside her and she very nearly jumped. He met her eyes, offered his arm. “Let’s go across the lawn and through the shrubbery, and you can tell me how many guests, and whom, you think would best be quartered here.”
Inclining her head, she tucked her hand in the crook of his arm; he resisted the urge to draw it further and cover it with his, to draw her closer. They descended the steps and started strolling.
Lifting her head, Caro focused on the trees lining the drive and forced her mind to the myriad details of organizing the ball—away from the hideously distracting presence beside her. Her lungs had seized again; it was a wonder she could speak. “The Swedes definitely.” She threw him a glance. “I won’t wish General Kleber on you—we’ll keep the Prussians at Bramshaw. The grand duchess will almost certainly attend, and she’ll expect to stay with me.”
She continued working through the guest list; grappling with logistics did, indeed, make it easier to cope with Michael’s nearness. He gave her no cause to panic further, but asked intelligent questions, ones she could answer. He had met, or knew of, most of those she intended to invite; he was aware of the undercurrents between the various groups.
They strolled down a path between the trees, then circled through the extensive shrubbery, eventually reemerging onto the drive not far from the terrace from which they’d set out.
“I’ve a confession to make,” Michael said as they climbed the terrace steps.
She glanced at him. “Oh?”
He met her gaze, and she was struck by a dreadful suspicion that he could see through her social shield. Her lungs locked; her nerves tensed. His gaze traveled her face, but then he smiled, an easy, comfortable, and to her comforting, gesture.
“Despite making me promise to open the fete, Muriel neglected to mention when the event is.” His eyes returned to hers, full of self-deprecatory laughter. “Rescue me—when is it?”
She laughed, felt the tension that had gripped her dissolve. Found she could meet his eyes with genuine ease. “A week from tomorrow.”
“So”—gaining the terrace, he waved her to the wrought-iron table now set with luncheon dishes—“your ball would be a week from tonight.”
“Yes.” She sat in the chair he held for her, then waited until he took the one opposite before launching into details of the ball itself; she’d saved that subject so she’d have something to keep him occupied. “I’m not yet sure of my theme.”
Michael hesitated, then suggested, “Keep it simple.”
When she opened her eyes at him, he elaborated, “More informal than a London ball. Everyone will have had a surfeit through the Season, but in the country in summer there’s no reason you need adhere to full ceremony.”
If she did, he’d have the devil of a time securing some of her attention on the night.
“Hmm…even though we’re talking of the diplomatic corps?” Her brows rose higher. “Perhaps you’re right.”
She paused to consume a forkful of Mrs. Entwhistle’s pastry, then, gaze distant, waved the fork. “What about calling it a Midsummer Revels, rather than a ball?”