Michael spoke last; it was instantly apparent he was the most gifted speaker of the three. His attitude was relaxed, his message succinct, his tone and inflections natural and assured as he applauded their community spirit, alluded to its strength, and how it owed its existence to each and every one of them. With just a few words, he bound them together, made each individual feel personally included. Then, drawing on local lore, thus subtly underscoring that he was one of them, he made them laugh, and then, speaking over the laughter, owned himself honored to declare the fete officially open.

The emphasis he placed on “officially” left everyone with a smile on their face; in true country fashion, no one had waited for any official sanction.

Caro had heard many such speeches, but not before from him. Yet she knew talent when she heard it; the Prime Minister’s push to promote Michael into the Cabinet, where his eloquence would be of even more use to the government, now made complete sense.

Watching him shake hands with Reverend Trice and exchange a few words with Muriel, she sensed he was a politician who, although already successful, still had further to go. He had the talent to be a real power, but had yet to fully develop his strengths; to her experienced eyes, that was very clear.

He jumped down from the dray and rejoined her. Smiling, she took his arm. “You’re very good at that, you know.”

Michael looked into her eyes, read her sincerity, lightly shrugged. “It runs in the family.”

Her smile deepened and she looked away; he seized the moment to tuck the compliment safely away in his mind. Such praise from her would have been gold in any case, yet now it meant much more.

The crowd had returned to the stalls and the various activities—the horseshoe throwing, the woodchopping and archery contests, among others. Despite her long absences, Caro was popular; as they strolled, people came up to greet her. And him. She was easy to spot in her summery gown of wide white and gold vertical stripes. She hadn’t bothered with a hat; a gauzy gold scarf lay about her throat, protecting her fine skin from the sun.

Many members of the Ladies’ Association stopped them, congratulating her on her idea of steering her ball guests to the fete, thus, as was quite evident about them, ensuring a special success for the day. Again he was struck by her facility for knowing what was happening in the lives of so many, even though she so rarely resided at Bramshaw; she picked up snippets from this one and that, and always seemed to remember to whom they applied when she next met that person.

He had more than one reason for clinging to her side; she commanded his attention on so many levels. Luckily, the fete was primarily Muriel’s responsibility; when he asked, Caro confirmed that, as he’d supposed, once she’d delivered her guests as promised, her duty was discharged.

And she was free.

He bided his time, buying a selection of savories and two glasses of Mrs. Hennessy’s pear wine to take the edge from their visceral hunger.

Normally, at such gatherings most participants would remain all day. The ball guests, who to a person had attended, had made their own arrangements for departure, instructing their coachmen to stop in the nearby clearing at prearranged times. There was no reason, therefore, that he and Caro could not remain until late afternoon.

He gave her no hint that he planned anything else. Arm in arm, they wended through the now considerable crowd, meeting others, in between amusing each other with observations and anecdotes that, unsurprisingly, were colored by their worldliness, by the background they shared.

Caro grew increasingly aware of that last, of just how much at ease in Michael’s company she’d become. As they parted from Mrs. Carter, voluble in her thanks to Michael for having hired her son—which thanks he’d glibly yet sincerely turned aside with praise for Carter’s service, thereby allaying any lingering doubts raised by Muriel’s rejection of same, a fact Caro was perfectly certain he both knew and intended—she glanced at him. He caught her eye, lightly raised a brow. She merely smiled and looked away.

Impossible to tell him—explain to him—what a pleasure it was to be with someone who saw and understood as she did, to share even such minor yet significant matters with someone who thought and acted as she would. It was an emotional pleasure, not just an intellectual one, something that left her with a warm inner glow, a sense of shared achievement.

She’d grown used to his strength, to the sense of it surrounding her, to him being by her side, yet today she was conscious of the less obvious, less deliberate attentions he paid her. Without making any point of it, he seemed devoted to her pleasure, constantly seeking to smooth her way, to find things to amuse her, to please and entertain her.

If it had been Ferdinand, he’d have expected her to notice, and to reciprocate in kind; Michael hardly seemed aware he was doing it.

It occurred to her that he was taking care of her—that he considered her as being in his care, his to care for. Not as in a duty, but more as an instinctive act, an expression of the man he was.

She recognized the role; it was one she often assumed. Yet it was novel to find that role reversed, to discover herself the recipient of such unobtrusive, instinctive care.

They’d paused; she glanced at him. He was looking through the crowd, his expression impassive. She followed his gaze and saw Ferdinand talking to George Sutcliffe.

“I wonder,” Michael murmured, “what Leponte is up to now.”

“Whatever,” she replied, “knowing George’s taciturnity, especially with foreigners, I can’t imagine Ferdinand will have much joy of him.”

Michael raised his brows. “True.” He glanced at her. “You’re sure we shouldn’t go and save him?”

She laughed. “Ferdinand or George? But regardless, I think we can leave them to their own devices.” She had no wish to mar her day by having to deal with Ferdinand, to let him attempt to seduce her into revealing more about Camden’s papers. He wouldn’t succeed, and then he’d sulk; she’d known him for too long not to be certain of that.

Michael had pulled out his watch and was checking it.

“What’s the time?” she asked.

“Nearly one o’clock.” Returning the watch to his pocket, he looked over the crowd toward the forest. “They’re starting the archery contest.” He looked at her. “Shall we go and have a look?”

She smiled, took his arm. “Let’s.”

Many men had attempted to charm her, yet this—this simple day and his caring companionship—touched her in a way no other ever had.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Cynster Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net