He knew a rhetorical question when he heard one; he made no reply.
“There’s a wonderful group of musicians in Lyndhurst who would be perfect. They’re very good with lighter, summery airs and country dances.” Her eyes had lit; she was clearly envisioning the event. “It would certainly be something different…”
He sipped his wine, then raised the glass to her. “A summer wine to tempt the jaded palate.”
She met his eyes, grinned. “Precisely. Yes—that’s what we’ll do.”
The next half hour went in a discussion of potential problems and how best to deal with them. Knowing the importance of foreseeing such hitches and having plans to deal with them before they arose, Caro had composed her guest list with an eye to highlighting Michael’s need for a hostess who understood matters such as the esoteric wranglings currently exercising the Russians and their Prussian neighbors.
“So,” she concluded, “can I rely on you to keep an eye on the Prussians and the Russians and make sure they don’t come to blows? I want Edward to keep a more general eye on things, and I’ll be everywhere, of course.”
Michael nodded. “The Polish chargé d’affaires will be of some help, I daresay.”
“Really?” She raised her brows. “He’s always struck me as such a mild sort, rather ineffectual.”
Michael’s lips curved; he met her eyes. “Appearances can be deceptive.”
Inwardly, she stilled; outwardly, she opened her eyes wider, then shrugged. “If you’re sure.” Pushing back her chair, she laid aside her napkin. “Now I really must go and make a start on the invitations.”
Michael rose and came to draw back her chair. “I’ll walk you to the stable.”
She picked up the gauzy scarf she’d draped over the chair back; she caught it between her hands, intending to flip it over her hair, but stopped. Instead, as they went down the steps and set off around the house, she kept the scarf in her hands, idly playing with the long band, thus obviating him offering her his arm.
Not that he made any move to do so. Instead, he walked beside her, his strides long and easy…almost lazy.
They walked through the sun-dappled orchard, and she felt her nerves easing once more. Despite that odd panic that while he was close never seemed to be far away, her latest ploy had played out very well. She’d managed, and survived the whole quite creditably. Surely he could see that an innocent, relatively inexperienced young lady like Elizabeth could never cope with the demands of social events the like of which his wife would need to organize.
As Camden’s bride, Caro been plunged into the higher diplomatic circles with even less preparation than Elizabeth had now; she could still remember the paralyzing panic, the stomach-churning fear—she wouldn’t wish that on any young lady, much less her own niece.
Surely, with all the details of the ball and its associated organization laid before him, he’d realize…
She drew in a breath, lifted her chin. “Elizabeth’s out picnicking with the Driscolls and Lord Sommerby.” She flashed a smile Michael’s way. “She hates doing invitations—inscribing the same phrases time after time—but…”
Michael caught the tension in her voice as she continued, searching for ways to draw attention to Elizabeth’s youth and lack of experience without being obvious. That that had been the principal purpose behind her visit, perhaps even behind the ball itself, he didn’t doubt; that she was acting to deflect him from offering for Elizabeth’s hand he no longer questioned. Yet her manipulation itself no longer concerned him—what had moved her to it, her attitudes, her silences, most of all the vulnerability and occasional, fleeting panics he detected behind her glamour of supreme confidence and capability, did.
Elizabeth’s face, and Edward’s, too, flashed across his mind, yet it was the need to spare Caro that had him reaching for her hand.
She was gesturing as she spoke; he trapped her fingers in midair, unsurprised when her words abruptly died.
Halting, she faced him, eyes wide, pupils dilating, breath caught. He met her gaze, trapped her silvery eyes; he was acutely conscious that they were out of sight of the house, screened by the orchard’s trees, all in full leaf. “You don’t need to be so busy on Elizabeth’s behalf.”
Shifting his hold on her hand, enclosing her fingers in his, he stepped closer, realized from the way she blinked, then, a frown forming in her eyes, searched his, that she wasn’t sure of his meaning.
“You don’t need to instruct me about Elizabeth anymore.” His lips lifted wryly. “You’ve convinced me.”
Caro stared into his blue eyes. She’d never been knocked so far off-balance in her life. He was too close—she was so aware…
How long had he known?
The thought jerked her free of the mesmerizing effect he had on her. She narrowed her eyes, concentrated. Did he mean what she thought he did? “You’ve changed your mind? You won’t be offering for Elizabeth’s hand?”
He smiled. “I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be offering for Elizabeth’s hand.” He paused, then raised her fingers to his lips, lightly brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “E
lizabeth is not my ideal bride.”
The touch of his lips sent a tingling sensation skittering down her arm, but that was overwhelmed, then submerged, by the incredible relief that rose up and poured through her.
Only then did she realize she hadn’t been certain of her ability to save Elizabeth, hadn’t until then appreciated how important to her saving Elizabeth from an unhappy political marriage had become.