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 un-threatening. 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…”
The conversational reins firmly in her grasp, she set out to create her field of battle.
Michael let her rattle on as she would, increasingly certain her peripatetic discourse wasn’t as lacking in direction as it seemed. Regardless of her ultimate goal, her observations were accurate, often cannily acute; when she directed a specific question his way, and actually paused to give him a chance to answer, it was on a subject that was a diplomatic minefield. Their ensuing comments evolved into a discussion of some depth.
After a while, she rose; still talking, she paced, circling the chaise, then sank down onto it once more. He didn’t stir, but watched her, conscious of the intellectual challenge of dealing with her on more than one level simultaneously. Indeed, on more than two. He was perfectly aware there was more going on than the obvious, and equally certain she was determinedly ignoring at least one thread in their interaction.
Finally, relaxed once more on the chaise, she spread her hands and asked directly, “Well, will you help?”
He met her gaze. “On two conditions.”
A sudden wariness slid behind her lovely eyes; she blinked and it was replaced by an expecting-to-be-amused smile. “Conditions? Good heavens! What?”
He smiled, striving to make the expression as unthreatening as he could, not entirely sure he’d succeeded. “One—it’s too lovely a day to spend sitting inside. Let’s take this discussion on a stroll through the gardens. Two”—he held her gaze—“that you’ll stay for lunch.”
She blinked, slowly; he was very sure she was, most definitely, wary of him physically. Of getting physically close. He knew of only one way to address such a problem, and she’d handed him the solution on a platter.
Having set the stage herself, she couldn’t now not play; her smile deepening, she refocused on his face. “Very well—if you insist.”
He fought to stop his smile from deepening. “Oh, I do.”
She rose; so did he, but he turned aside to the bellpull to summon Carter and instruct him about luncheon, giving her the chance to escape onto the terrace.
When he followed her out, she was standing at the top of the steps facing the front lawn. Her hands were clasped before her; her shoulders rose as she drew in a deep breath.
He moved to stand beside her and she very nearly jumped. He met her eyes, offered his arm. “Let’s go across the lawn and through the shrubbery, and you can tell me how many guests, and whom, you think would best be quartered here.‘