His weight as he moved over her was a giddy relief, then he parted her thighs, pressed between, and entered her.
Thrust deep and joined with her.
Her gasp shivered through the night, a silver echo about them; eyes locked with hers, he thrust deeper still, then he bent his head, sealed her lips with his, and moved within her. Powerfully.
Unrestrained yet controlled, he whirled her into the dance her body and senses craved, that some part of her ached for. That her long-buried needs and wants, at last free, longed for. He wrapped her in dreams of hot skin slickly sliding, tongues sensuously tangling, muscled hardness and flushed softness supplely and intimately twining.
She arched beneath him, her body straining against his; he held her down and drove deeper, harder. Faster as she rose on the crest of that familiar wave, reaching higher, further, until it broke.
With a cry that he drank, she tumbled from the peak into his waiting arms.
Michael caught her, held her close, spread her thighs wider and sank deeper into her scalding heat, driving faster, harder, until her body claimed him and he followed her into sweet oblivion.
Later, he lifted from her; slumping beside her, relaxed, every muscle boneless with sated languor, he realized in the instant before sleep overcame him that his instincts had been right.
This was where he’d needed to spend the night—in Caro’s bed, with her asleep beside him. One arm slung over her waist, he closed his eyes.
And slept.
He had to scramble the next morning to avoid the maids, both at Bramshaw House and the Manor. Returning to Bramshaw as he’d promised at eight o’clock, he found Caro’s traveling carriage waiting in the forecourt, the team between the shafts restless and ready to go.
Unfortunately for them all, while Caro herself was ready, the packing and stowing of her numerous boxes and valises had only just begun. Michael had had his groom drive him over in his curricle, his two cases strapped on behind; directing the two insignificant cases be placed alongside the mountain of Caro’s luggage, he strolled to where she stood on the porch in conference with Catten and her not-so-young Portuguese maid.
Catten bowed in welcome; the maid bobbed, but the glance she threw him was severe.
Caro beamed, which was all he truly cared about.
“As you see”—she gestured to the footmen ferrying her luggage to the carriage—“we’re ready—almost. This should take no more than half
an hour.”
He’d expected as much; he returned her smile. “No matter—I need to speak with Edward.”
“He’ll be supervising Elizabeth’s piano practice, I expect.”
With a nod, he turned away. “I’ll find him.”
He did, as predicted in the drawing room. A look summoned Edward from the piano; Elizabeth smiled, but continued to play. Edward joined him as he crossed the drawing room; at his intimation, they walked out onto the terrace.
He halted, but didn’t immediately speak. Edward stopped beside him. “Last-minute instructions?”
Michael glanced at him. “No.” He hesitated, then said, “More in the nature of forward planning.” Before Edward could respond, he went on, “I want to ask you a question to which I would obviously like an answer, but if you feel you can’t, for whatever reason, divulge the information, I will understand.”
Edward was a skilled political aide; his “Oh?” was noncommittal.
Hands sunk in his pockets, Michael looked out over the lawn. “Caro’s relationship with Camden—what was it?”
After Caro’s explanation of her negligees, he had to know.
He’d chosen his words carefully; they revealed nothing specific, yet made clear that he knew what that relationship hadn’t been.
Which, of course, raised the question of how he knew.
Silence stretched; he let it. He didn’t expect Edward to reveal anything about Caro or Camden readily, yet he hoped Edward would allow for the fact that while Camden was dead, Caro wasn’t.
Eventually, Edward cleared his throat. He, too, looked out over the lawn. “I’m very fond of Caro, as you know….” After a moment, he continued, his tone that of one reporting, “It’s common practice for all pertinent information about an ambassador’s life, including his marriage, to be passed from each ambassadorial aide to his replacement. It’s considered the sort of thing that might, in certain circumstances, be vital to know. When I took up my post in Lisbon, my predecessor informed me that it was common knowledge among the household that Caro and Camden never shared a bed.”
He paused, then went on, “That situation was known to have been the case more or less since their marriage—at least from the time Caro took up residence in Lisbon.” Again he paused, then more reluctantly went on, “The suspicion—and it was never voiced as more than that—was that their marriage might never have been consummated.”