He drew his fingers from her; she’d been tight, very tight, but Camden had been dead for two years and had been getting on in years before that. But as he pushed her skirts down, he caught the frown in her eyes, the sudden dulling of the silvery glory. He raised a brow in mute query.
Her frown grew definite. “What about you?” She turned toward him; her hand found him, rigid as granite and equally hard. Her light caress would have brought him to his knees if he’d been upright.
He caught her hand, had to search to find breath enough to say, “Not this time.”
“Why not?”
There was a hint of something beyond the obvious in her disappointment—a disappointment clear enough to lend an edge to his already intent glance. “Because I have plans.”
He did, indeed, and he wasn’t about to share them with her. Given her acknowledged propensity to erect hurdles, the less she knew, the better.
Her frown grew suspicious. “What?”
Flopping onto his back, he slid an arm around her and urged her over him. “You don’t need to know.” He drew her head down, caught her full lower lip between his teeth and gently tugged, then whispered, “But you’re welcome to try to find out.”
She chuckled; again he recalled she didn’t laugh often, resolved, even as her lips pressed to his and she gave herself up to her quest to persuade him, to make her laugh more. To push away the clouds t
hat beneath all the glamour seemed to have dulled her life for too long.
Then she shifted more definitely over him, put her heart and soul into their kiss, and he forgot everything else and gave himself up to simply kissing her back.
Despite her efforts, Caro learned nothing of Michael’s plans. When they returned to Bramshaw House, her neglected duties claimed her; not until her head hit her pillow late that night did she get a chance to think of what had transpired in the clearing. Of what he had wanted, what he had learned, what he had made her feel.
Just the thought of that last made her flesh throb in remembered delight; her body still glowed faintly with the aftermath of pleasure. True, Camden had touched her in similar ways; the veils she’d drawn over those few nights when he’d come to her bed obscured the details, yet she’d never sensed in Camden what she sensed in Michael—and had never reacted, never felt with Camden any of the excitement let alone the glory she felt in Michael’s arms.
Despite the secret worry that still nagged—that something would yet go wrong, that at the end, when it came to the point, what she longed for simply wouldn’t happen—she felt a countering eagerness, an anticipation, a compulsion to go forward, to explore and experience as much as she could. As much as he would show her.
Whatever his plans were, she would follow him regardless.
Regardless of all else, there was one vital point she simply had to know.
11
Michael rose early the next morning. He tried to immerse himself in catching up with the London news, reading the news sheets and letters from various correspondents, but time and again he caught himself sitting in his armchair, booted ankle propped on one knee, his gaze fixed before him—thinking of Caro.
She’d spoken of hurdles she didn’t mean to place before him, and then revealed one gigantic, triple-bar water jump that, unintended or not, he was going to have to find some way to clear.
Camden had married her for her talents, her undeniable skills. From what he knew of Camden, that came as no surprise; if any man had known which innate abilities were required to produce a topnotch hostess, and been able to recognize them in a raw young lady of seventeen, Camden had been that man. He’d already buried two highly talented wives.
That, however, wasn’t the problem. Caro hadn’t understood, had thought he’d been marrying her for other reasons, presumably the usual romantic reasons young ladies dreamed of, and Camden—
Michael gritted his teeth, but had no difficulty imagining the Camden he’d known and heard so much about deploying his charm and glittering, multifaceted personality to dazzle a young lady he’d wanted for his own. Oh, yes, he would have done it, knowingly led her up the garden path, let her think what she would—anything to gain what he’d wanted.
He’d wanted Caro, and got her.
But to her, it had all been under false pretenses.
That was what had wounded her, scarred her; the spot was still tender, even after all these years.
Just how tender, he’d seen for himself; he wouldn’t willingly prod that point anew. He didn’t, however, regret doing so. If he hadn’t…at least he now knew what he faced.
Given that she was fully cognizant of his own urgent and very real need for just such a wife as Camden had wanted, just the sort of talented female she herself was, getting her to agree to marry him was going to be an uphill slog.
And that’s where the gigantic, triple-bar water jump stood—not in the way of getting her into his bed, but between him and his ultimate goal.
He pondered that, then decided it lay too far ahead—who knew what might happen between then and now? Perhaps another, clearer route to marriage would open up, and he wouldn’t need to front that gigantic, triple-bar water jump after all.
His plans were sound; one step at a time—secure one goal before moving on to take the next.