The realization sharpened Michael’s attention. From the corner of his eye, he watched Ferdinand consider Caro measuringly. There was an intensity in that assessment that did not fit the mold of a holidaying foreign diplomat looking for a little diversion in the bucolic bliss of the English countryside.
Caro threw a comment his way; smiling easily, with practiced facility he resumed his part in the discussion.
Yet some part of him remained alert, focused on Ferdinand.
Dinner was announced. The guests paired up and strolled into the large dining room. Michael found himself seated near the duke and count; Portugal had for centuries been one of England’s closest allies—those gentlemen’s interest in learning his stance on various issues and educating him as to theirs was entirely understandable.
Less understandable was Caro’s placement—at the far end of the table, separated from the duchess by Ferdinand, with an ancient Portuguese admiral on her other side and the countess opposite. Although at least a third of those present were English, there were no compatriots near her.
Not, of course, that such a situation would bother her.
It did bother him.
Caro was aware of the peculiarity of her placement. If Camden had been alive and she’d been attending with him, then the position was correct, seating her with the other senior diplomats’ wives. However…
She wondered, fleetingly, whether her appearing on Michael’s arm and remaining by his side in the drawing room had given rise to an inaccurate assumption; considering the duchess’s and countess’s experience, she jettisoned that explanation. If they’d suspected any pending connection between her and Michael, one or the other would have quietly inquired. Neither had, which meant she was seated where she was for some other purpose; while she smiled and chatted and the courses came and went, she wondered what that might be.
On her right, Ferdinand was charmingly attentive. On her left, old Admiral Pilocet snoozed, waking only to peer at the dishes as each course was set out before succumbing to slumber once more.
“My dear Caro, you must try some of these mussels.”
Returning her attention to Ferdinand, she consented to be served with a concoction of mussels and shallots in herb broth.
“They are English mussels, of course,” Ferdinand gestured with his fork, “but the dish is from Albufeira—my home.”
Increasingly intrigued by his persistence, she decided to let herself be drawn. “Indeed?” Skewering a mussel on the tines of her fork, she considered it, then glanced at Ferdinand. “Do I take it you live near your uncle and aunt?” She popped the morsel into her mouth and watched his gaze lock on her lips.
He blinked. “Ah…” His eyes returned to hers. “Yes.” He nodded and looked down at his plate. “We all—my parents and cousins and my other uncles and aunts—live at the castelo there.” He turned his brilliantly charming smile on her. “It is built on the cliffs overlooking the sea.” He looked soulfully into her eyes. “You should visit with us there—Portugal has been too long without your fair presence.”
She laughed. “I greatly fear Portugal will have to grin and bear my absence. I have no plans to leave England’s shores in the foreseeable future.”
“Ah, no!” Ferdinand’s features reflected dramatic pain. “It is a loss, at least in our little corner of the world.”
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She smiled and finished the last of her mussels.
Their plates were cleared. Ferdinand leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We all understand, of course, that you were devoted to Ambassador Sutcliffe, and even now revere his memory.”
He paused, watching closely. Her smile in place, she reached for her wineglass, raised it to her lips; as she sipped, she met his dark eyes. “Indeed.”
She wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss Ferdinand and his by-English-standards histrionic behavior. He was probing, searching—for what she had no clue. But while he was good, she was better. She gave him no inkling of her true feelings and waited to see where he would go.
He cast his eyes down, feigning…shyness? “I have long harbored a regard bordering on fascination for Sutcliffe—he was the consummate diplomat. There is so much that can be learned from a study of his life—his successes, his strategies.”
“Really?” She looked mildly bemused, although he wasn’t the first to take that tack.
“But yes! Just think of his first actions on taking up his post in Lisbon, when he—”
The next course was set before them. Ferdinand continued to expound on the highlights of Camden’s career. Content to have him thus occupied, she encouraged him; he was extremely well informed of the catalog of her late husband’s actions.
By judiciously adding her own observations, she extended the discussion over the rest of the courses; Ferdinand looked up, slightly surprised when the duchess rose to lead the ladies from the room.
In the drawing room, the duchess and countess claimed her attention.
“Is it always this warm during your summer?” The duchess languidly waved her fan.
Caro smiled. “Actually, it’s quite mild this year. Is this your first visit to England?”