He hid a frown; she seemed terribly serious. “I’m awake. What question?”
She hesitated, then drew a deep breath—he felt her breasts press into his chest. “How soon can we marry?” It came out calmly enough; she continued, “I’ve made my decision. I know what I want—there’s nothing more I need to wait for. That is,” she held his gaze, arched a brow, “assuming you still want to marry me.”
“You don’t have to ask.” He closed one hand over her waist—over her latest silk confection. He hadn’t yet seen it; he would—soon. “But…” He tried to stop himself questioning fate, yet he had to know. “What convinced you—brought on your decision?”
“You. Me.” She searched his eyes. “And seeing Muriel point a pistol at your head. That…opened my eyes—I suddenly saw things terribly clearly.” She paused, her eyes on his, then went on, “You’d convinced me that I should marry you, that being your wife was the right position for me, but I sensed some element was missing, some last vital thing.” Her lips twisted ironically. “I realized what was missing was me, or rather my decision itself. I had to, in Therese Osbaldestone’s words, ‘claim my courage and seize the day.’ Until I did, until I knowingly accepted the risk and went forward, what’s grown between us couldn’t develop further.”
She shifted, her legs tangling with his. “Muriel and her threats brought home to me all I was risking by not deciding—by not taking the risk. Life is for living, not hating, but it’s not for wasting, either. You and I, we’ve both wasted years, but now we have a chance to go forward.”
She met his gaze openly, without any veil or shield. “Together we can build a family, fill the Manor with children and joy. And the Half Moon Street house, too—I could imagine living there with you, being your hostess, your helpmate to a much greater degree than I ever was with Camden.”
Her eyes were purest silver in the night. “Together, we’ve a chance to create our future as we want it to be. Whether what we feel will see us through…” She tilted her head. “It’s a risk, yes, but one worth taking.” Her lips lifted lightly as she refocused on his eyes. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take with you.”
He smiled, felt every last vestige of concern fall from him. “Thank you.” He closed his arms about her, held her close, felt her warmth sink to his bones. “We can be married as soon as you like—I’ve got a special license.”
Before she could think too much about that last, he bent his head, nudged hers up, and kissed her—a kiss that rapidly spun out of control, his or hers.
Several heated minutes later, she pulled back, gasped, “What about your head?”
“It’ll be fine,” he groaned, “if you’ll just”—throwing back the covers, he caught her knees, drew them up to his sides, adjusted beneath her, sighed and closed his eyes—“sit back.”
Caro did, smiling blissfully, exhaling slowly as she took him in.
And all was well. Very well.
They dealt with the last loose end of Camden Sutcliffe’s life the next morning. When they’d taken Timothy home the day before, Caro had retrieved Camden’s letters. Ferdinand called at eleven o’clock, armed with a list of dates; it was a simple enough matter to find the relevant letters.
Caro read them, confirmed they were not only what Ferdinand wanted but also seriously inflammatory; they dealt with a proposed coup to be led by the duke many years ago, a few months before Camden had been appointed ambassador to Portugal. Satisfied there was nothing in the letters to concern the present British government, she handed them to Ferdinand. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
He looked down at her, then smiled his winning smile. “Dear Caro, you are known too well for that. If I’d asked, you would have looked, and then you might have felt compelled to let someone in your Foreign Office know….” He shrugged. “It could have ended badly.”
Considering what she’d just read, she had to agree; for the duke, the stakes had been, and still were, high.
With smiles all around, Ferdinand shook hands and left.
She turned to Michael, raised a brow. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to visit Timothy. Given your views on my visiting his house, I imagine you would prefer to accompany me?”
Michael met her gaze. “You imagine correctly.”
They went, and found Breckenridge lying in bed, interestingly pale, very weak, but fully conscious—and not at all receptive to Caro’s fussing, let alone her tonic. Michael saw the desperate plea in Breckenridge’s eyes and took pity. Wincing as if from a headache, when Caro noticed he suggested that perhaps he needed to return home to rest.
She reacted as he’d expected with instant solicitude. Behind her back, Breckenridge rolled his eyes, but wisely remained mute.
Later in the afternoon, on his way to his club to meet with Jamieson, Michael looked in again on Breckenridge. This time, Timothy was propped up in bed; Michael lounged in the doorway.
Timothy eyed him, then faintly smiled. “I suppose I should thank you. I had no idea she was such an excellent shot.”
“So I assumed. But you can avoid doing violence to your feelings—I saved you because of Caro. Strange to tell, she seems to value you.”
Letting his head rest against his pillows, Timothy grinned. “Indeed. Do bear that in mind for the future.” He considered Michael, then added, “Of course, you wouldn’t have saved me if you’d known in doing so you’d incapacitate yourself in the process.”
Michael didn’t smile. “I would never knowingly leave Caro unprotected.”
Timothy’s eyes glinted from beneath his heavy lids. “Just so.” His smile dawned.
Michael was sure they understood each other perfectly.
“So,” Timothy lifted a glass and sipped Caro’s cordial, grimaced, “why are you here?”