From experience, he knew her tack wouldn’t work. As long as they remained in sufficient proximity to ensure they would meet and inevitably touch, the need would grow only more potent, the spark commensurately more powerful, until they let it burn.
The only problem he could see in that was that the woman involved was Caro.
Her reaction wasn’t a surprise. Unlike Ferdinand, he knew the correct interpretation of her nickname. The “Merry Widow” was, as such English nicknames sometimes were, a perverse expression. In Caro’s case, she was an outwardly merry widow in that she was a hostess of some note, but the real meaning was that she’d been chased by the best of them, yet had refused to be caught. Just as red-haired men were often called Bluey, she was, in reality, a severely chaste widow who never encouraged anyone to imagine otherwise.
She was the opposite of what the term “Merry Widow” led the naive to suppose.
Which meant he was in for a difficult and uncomfortable time of it, at least until he convinced her that her only option was one that would suit her as well as it would suit him.
Savoring the last of his coffee, he considered how long convincing her might take. Considered the hurdles before him. To be the gentleman who tempted the Merry Widow enough to get into her bed, and her…
A challenge indeed.
It would be a diplomatic triumph of an unusual order, even if no one ever knew of his success. But they would, of course; that was part of his plan.
He could pull it off; he was a politician born and bred, and such innate qualities were precisely those required. He just had to finesse his way past Caro’s defenses.
And along the way, when he had her defenseless in his arms, he’d learn what it was that had so upset her, and if he could, put it right.
Deeming it wise to let the day go by, to let her normal, natural confidence reassert itself and assure her she was safe, that he posed no threat to her and so didn’t need to be kept at a distance, he schooled himself to sit in his study and deal with the months’ worth of accounts and minor details his agent had dutifully left piled on his desk.
Two hours later, he was steadily plodding through the pile when Carter tapped on the door and entered.
“Mrs. Sutcliffe has called, sir.”
He checked his memory. “Which Mrs. Sutcliffe?” Caro? Or one of Camden’s nieces-by-marriage?
“Mrs. Caroline, sir. She’s in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Carter.” He rose, wondering, then inwardly shrugged. He’d learn soon enough.
When he entered the drawing room, Caro was standing before the windows looking out over the front lawn. Sunbeams lanced through her cloud of frizzy hair, striking copper and red glints from the golden brown. Her gown was a pale blue a few shades darker than her eyes; fine and summer light, it clung to her figure.
She heard him and turned, smiled.
And he instantly knew she was a long way from believing him unthreatening. As usual, however, it was only instinct that told him so; Caro herself gave nothing away.
“I hope you don’t mind—I’ve come to sound you out and pick your brains.”
He returned her smile, waved her to the chaise. “How can I help?”
Caro grasped the moment of crossing to the chaise, gathering her skirts and sinking gracefully down, then waiting for him to lounge, relaxed but attentive in the armchair facing her, to marshal her thoughts and dragoon her wits out of the morass of irrational panic they’d developed a habit of sinking into every time the possibility of Michael’s coming close to her loomed.
She didn’t understand her sudden sensitivity; she could barely believe that after all her years of extensive worldly experience, she was now—here in deepest Hampshire—falling victim to such an affliction. Determined to conquer it, or at the very least ignore it, she clung to her pose of assured serenity. “I’ve decided to give a ball on the evening preceding the church fete. It occurred to me that with so many from London in the neighborhood, if we hold a ball, invite them all, and arrange to house them locally overnight, then they could spend the next day at the fete before heading off in the afternoon.”
She paused, then added, “I suppose what I’m proposing is a condensed house party with the ball as its highlight and the fete as its extension.”
Michael’s gaze remained on her face; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. After a moment, he asked, “So your underlying purpose is to use the ball to bolster attendance at the fete, especially with those down from London, which in turn will greatly increase local interest, thus ensuring the fete is a resounding success?”
She smiled. “Precisely.” It was a delight to deal with someone who saw not just actions, but implications and outcomes. Of course, ensuring the fete’s success was not the ultimate purpose driving her latest project. After yesterday, both Elizabeth and Edward were adamant over bringing the situation with Michael to a head; they wanted to create some situation that would definitively demonstrate Elizabeth’s incapacity to adequately fill the role of Michael’s wife.
Thus a major social event to be attended by numerous diplomatic and political personages, tied to a major local event. The organization required would be horrendous, and Elizabeth was, indeed, a mere apprentice in that regard.
Caro, of course, could handle such a challenge without a qualm, and would; they were hoping the demonstration of her talents would focus Michael’s attention on Elizabeth’s lack of such highly evolved social skills.
He was regarding her with what seemed to be faintly amused interest. “I’m sure you’re already halfway organized. How can I help?”
“I was wondering if you would agree to put up some of the guests from farther afield for the night of the ball.” She didn’t wait for a reply, but artfully continued, “And I also wanted to ask your opinion on the guest list—do you think that little difficulty between the Russians and the Prussians has blown over? And, of course…”