“Where are we going?” She glanced back at the house.
“Where we won’t be disturbed.”
She looked at him. “And where’s that?”
He didn’t reply, but then they reached the end of the path and he set off across the lawn, and she had her answer. The summerhouse.
She pulled back on his hand. “If Elizabeth and Edward look out of the window, they’ll see us.”
“Will they be able to see us once we’re inside?”
“No, but—”
“Then why are you arguing?” He glanced at her; his gaze was hard. “We have unfinished business and that’s the obvious place to conclude it. If, however, you’d rather we pursued our ‘discussion’ in the middle of the lawn…?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Looked ahead at the summerhouse, rapidly nearing. Muttered sotto voce, “Damn presumptuous male!”
“What was that?”
“Never mind!” She waved toward the summerhouse. “In there, then, if you’re so set on it.”
Lifting her skirts, she climbed the steps beside him. If he was annoyed, as he seemed to be, then she was even more so. She’d never been one to brangle, but in this case she’d make an exception.
Her heels tapped imperiously as she and Michael crossed the wooden floor, heading to where they’d stood last night.
He stopped two yards from the bench, whirled her to face him, released her hand, raised his and framed her face—and kissed her.
Witless.
It was an assault plain and simple, but one her greedy senses leapt to meet; she grabbed hold of his coat to steady herself, to anchor herself in the giddy melee, the whirlpool of desire—hungry, ravenous, and hot—that he unleashed and sent raging. Through them both.
She drank it in, gasping as her senses exulted. As a hunger of her own rose in response.
He deepened the kiss and she was with him, mouths melding, tongues tangling, almost desperate in their need to touch, to take—to be with the other like this, on this otherworldly plane.
Michael knew he had her, that this at least she couldn’t deny. Spreading the fingers of one hand, he speared them deeper into the fine, frizzy wonder of her hair, holding her head steady while he ravaged her mouth; his other hand he sent sliding about her waist, then he drew her to him, steady inch by inch, until she was locked against him.
The contact, breasts to chest, hips to thighs, eased one facet of his driving need, only to escalate another. Determinedly, he reined it in, promising himself that it wouldn’t be for long.
It took effort to draw back, eventually to break the kiss, raise his head, and say, “That unfinished business…?”
Her lashes fluttered; her lids rose. It took a moment—a moment he savored—before understanding swam into her eyes. She refocused on his, studied his face. “What did you want to discuss?”
He held her gaze. He had to get it right, had to walk a tightrope and not overbalance. “You said if you could choose, you’d choose an affair.” He paused, then continued, his tone hardening, “If that’s all you’re offering, I’ll take it.”
Her eyes narrowed fractionally; she was practiced at hiding her emotions—he couldn’t see past the beaten silver of her eyes. “You mean you’ll forget all about marrying me, and we can just…”
“Be lovers. If that’s what you wish”—he shrugged lightly—“so be it.”
Again, he sensed rather than saw her suspicions. “You need to marry, but you accept I won’t be your bride? You won’t press me—won’t make an offer, or talk to Geoffrey or anyone else?”
He shook his head. “No offer, no maneuvering. However”—he caught the flash of cynical disbelief in her eyes, had already decided how to counter it—“just so we understand each other completely, beyond misconstruction, if you change your mind at any time, I remain perfectly willing to marry you.”
She frowned; holding her gaze, he went on, “My proposal stands—it stays on the table between us, but between us alone. If at any time you decide you wish to accept it, all you need do is say so. The decision’s yours, totally in your hands, yours alone to make.”
Caro understood what he was saying, understood not only the meaning of the words but the decision behind them. She felt mentally rocked; again the ground had shifted beneath her feet. This was something she hadn’t, never would have, expected. She could barely take it in. Yet…
“Why?” She had to ask, had to know.