There was a time and place for everything. The one weak link in his strategy lay in ensuring that when the supper waltz commenced, he was the gentleman in possession of Caro’s hand. During a break in the music, he paused beside the dais on which the musicians were seated; a quick word and a few guineas strengthened his position. When the opening bars of the supper waltz sounded, he’d just returned to Caro’s side, just reclaimed her hand, and had sotto voce informed her while bowing over it that the Russians and Prussians had thus far failed to come to blows.
She was smiling, relieved and entertained as the music swelled. He trapped her gaze. “My dance, I believe?” How could she refuse him?
With a laugh, she acquiesced and let him lead her to the floor. As she came into his arms and let him whirl her into the revolving circle, he realized she had no inkling that he was steering her in more ways than one.
He looked into her face, smiled into her eyes, found himself trapped in her silver gaze. Initially, she smiled back, as assured as he, yet gradually, as they twirled, their smiles faded, melted away, along with all consciousness of the noisy crowd around them.
Just that shared look, and he knew what she was thinking. That despite knowing each other for so long, inhabiting much the same circles, this was the first time they had ever shared a waltz.
She blinked; he saw her mind reach back…
“It was a country dance, last time.”
She refocused. Nodded. “In Lady Arbuthnot’s ballroom.”
He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that here, now, the moment was much different. It wasn’t simply the waltz, the fact that they were both expert in the dance, that their bodies flowed effortlessly through the turns. There was something more, something deeper that left them more attuned, more alert, more aware, more acutely sensitive to the other.
Despite their training, to the exclusion of all else.
Caro felt the fascination, knew he did, too, and could only marvel. Nothing in her life had ever had the power to shut her ears, mentally shut her eyes, focus her senses to this degree. She was a captive, but a willing one. Her nerves tingled, her skin seemed alive, sensitive to his nearness, to the aura of strength that wrapped about her, not trapping her but holding her, promising sensual delights she craved.
Her senses led, her mind followed.
She was relaxed, yet excited, nerves taut yet assured.
Only when they slowed and she realized the music was ending did awareness of the present return. To them both. She saw it in his eyes; the reluctance she glimpsed in them mirrored her own.
The shield about them dissolved and chatter washed over them, for one instant a babel of incomprehensible tongues. Then over all the rest came Catten’s stentorian tones directing everyone to the supper waiting in the marquee, to the chairs and tables, and the benches and well-lit walks, to the beauty of the midsummer night.
To a person, the throng turned to the three double French doors opened wide to the terrace. Delighted, exclaiming, guests poured out of the ballroom, stepping out into the balmy evening.
She and Michael had halted on the opposite side of the ballroom, not far from the main doors. She hung back, watching, making sure everyone was heading in the right direction. Once she was satisfied no guest had failed to understand the summons, she looked up, her hand firm on Michael’s arm.
He smiled down at her. His hand covered hers. “Come with me.”
She blinked; it took a moment to comprehend his meaning. “Now?” She stared at him. “I can’t—” She looked toward the last stragglers disappearing onto the terrace.
Blinked again, then looked up at him. “We can’t…” She searched his eyes, aware her pulse had started to canter. She moistened her lips. “Can we?”
His smile deepened, his blue eyes held hers. “You’ll never know unless you come with me.”
Her hand locked in his, he led her up the main stairs. They saw no one, and no one saw them. Guests, household members, and staff were all outside on the lawns, or rushing back and forth between the kitchens and the marquee.
There was no one to hear them walk down the first-floor corridor to the small sitting room at its end. He opened the door and handed her through; she entered expecting to see chairs, chaise, and sideboard draped with holland covers. The room had been closed for years; it overlooked the side avenue and the orchard beyond.
Instead…the room had been cleaned, dusted, and swept and the covers all removed. The vase of lilacs standing on the small table before the open window suggested the when and how.
She’d forgotten the daybed. Wide, comfortable, it was now piled with cushions. Stopping beside it, she turned. And found him beside her, waiting to take her in his arms.
With confident ease, he gathered her to him and kissed her, parted her lips, sank into her mouth and claimed its softness. She met him, sank into his embrace, eagerly accepted every caress, returned them, and demanded more.
His head slanted over hers; her fingers speared through his hair and tightened on his skull as his tongue thrust deep in a definitely provocative rhythm. A rhythm that tightened her nerves, that sent heat pouring through her. And him. She wondered how much deeper, how much closer the simple intimacy of a kiss could get, how much more revealing.
The revelations were intoxicating—the hunger, the need, the simple human wanting, both his and hers. There seemed, between them at least, no disguise, no veil of propriety either sought to use to conceal the primitive nature of their desire.
Mutual desire. It had been her goal for a decade and more; in his arms, she knew it, felt it, recognized and acknowledged it. She gasped as he released her lips, then pressed her close as he trailed hot kisses from her temple to the hollow beneath her ear while his fingers undid her laces.
“Ah…” She couldn’t think all that clearly, but she did remember she had a ballroomful of guests downstairs.