Halting before the windows, he released her; facing him, she drew in a breath. Before she could utter the protest she was certain she should, he said, “Think of it as me claiming your protection.”
“Protection?” She sent him a look that stated very clearly she wasn’t about to accept any such spurious reasoning—or any appeal to her feminine emotions, either. “You, of all people, in this crowd, need no protection beyond your own gilded tongue.”
He laughed, and she felt more comfortable, a touch more in control.
Suddenly realized that with him—and in truth, with him alone, at least within the confines of her private life—she did not, as she did with everyone else, exercise her usual level of mastery. Or rather, she might exercise it, yet it might very well not work. Her ability to manage him was not assured, not something she could take for granted.
They’d been eating, nibbling; she glanced up at him. He trapped her gaze; he’d been watching her face. He studied her eyes, then raised a brow in mute question.
She let her chin set. “Why are you clinging to my side?”
His brows rose; his eyes laughed at her. “I would have thought that’s obvious—you’re a much more entertaining companion than anyone else here, especially our often overhelpful hostess.”
She had to grant him that last. Muriel’s attempts at assistance could sometimes be disastrous. Yet she wagged a finger at him. “You know perfectly well you’re pleased she’s organized this evening—you’ve been able to do your local rounds without lifting a finger.”
“I never said I wasn’t grateful—it’s merely that my gratitude extends only so far.”
“Humph! If she hadn’t organized this, what would you have done?”
His smile was devastating. “Asked you to do it, of course.”
Ignoring the effect of that smile, she humphed again.
His expression turned mock-hurt. “Wouldn’t you have helped me?”
She glanced at him, tried to make her look severe. “Possibly. If I was bored. Only I’m not that bored at present, so you should be especially grateful to Muriel.”
Before she’d finished speaking, his gaze had turned considering, as if contemplating some different prospect.
“Actually, I should probably do something about the area south of Lyndhurst—”
“No.” Realizing what tack he was following, her response was instantaneous.
He refocused on her face, then tilted his head, a slight frown in his eyes; he seemed more intrigued than rejected. Then his expression eased; straightening, he took her empty plate from her. “We can talk about it later.”
“No, we can’t.” She was not going to act as a political or diplomatic hostess for him or any man ever again. In her own right, she might enjoy exercising her true talents, but she would not play that role for any man again.
He’d turned away to set their plates on a side table; when he turned back, she was surprised to discover his expression serious, his blue eyes unusually hard, yet his tone when he spoke was calming. “We can, and will, but not here, not now.”
For an instant, he held her gaze; she was looking at the real man, not the politician. Then he smiled, and his social mask overlaid that too-determined look; raising his head, he took her arm. “Come and help me with Mrs. Harris. How many children does she have these days?”
Reminding herself that despite his occasional lapses into what she classified as “presumptuous male” behavior, she was in good humor with him, she consented to accompany him and speak with Mrs. Harris.
And subsequently with a succession of others.
When, courtesy of a speculative glance from old Mrs. Tricket, she realized that his liking for her company was raising hares, rather than argue—in her experience a pointless exercise with a presumptuous male—she seized the opportunity of Muriel’s being in the group with whom they were engaged to move to her side and murmur, “Thank you for a very pleasant evening.”
Muriel, taking in Michael at her side, currently speaking with Mrs. Ellingham, looked at her in surprise. “You’re leaving?”
She smiled. “Indeed. I wanted to mention… I’ve decided to hold a ball on the evening before the fete. There are a number of the diplomatic set presently in the area—I thought if they stay overnight, they can attend the fete the next day, boosting our attendance.‘
“Ah.” Muriel blinked. “I see.”
She didn’t appear enamored of the notion, but that was almost certainly because she hadn’t thought of it first. Patting her arm, Caro went on, “I left Edward and Elizabeth struggling with the invitations—I must go and do my part. Again, thank you—I’ll send your invitation around tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Muriel nodded, her gaze going past Caro. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s something I must to see to.”
They parted. Caro turned to Michael, who had finished with Mrs. Ellingham. She let her smile deepen. “I’m heading home.”
She went to draw her hand from his arm and step away, but he moved with her. She paused when they were clear of the group, but he steered her on. Toward the front hall.
When she looked at him and let her puzzlement show, he gifted her with a smile she knew wasn’t genuine. “I’ll drive you home.”
A statement, not an offer; his tone—determined—was more real than his smile.
Her heels struck the hall tiles as she imagined it—driving home on the seat of his curricle, the night dark and balmy about them, his hard, solid body so close to hers… “No, thank you. I prefer to walk.”
He halted; they were out of sight of the company in the drawing room. “In case it’s escaped your notice, it’s now full dark outside.”
She shrugged. “It’s not as if I don’t know the way.”
“It’s what—a hundred yards or so to your gate, and then four hundred or more to the front steps?”
“This is Hampshire, not London. There isn’t any danger.”
Michael glanced at Muriel’s footman, standing waiting by the door. “Have my carriage brought around.”
“Yes, sir.”
The footman hurried off to comply. When Michael looked again at Caro, he found she’d narrowed her eyes.
“I am not—”
“Why are you arguing?”
She opened her lips, paused, then lifted her chin. “You haven’t taken your leave of Muriel. I’ll be halfway home by the time you do.”
He frowned, recalling. “She went into the dining room.”
Caro smiled. “You’ll need to go and find her.”
A sound behind them made him glance around. Hedderwick, Muriel’s spouse, had just come out of the library. No doubt he’d been imbibing something stronger than sherry, but was now returning to his wife’s party.
“Perfect,” Michael said beneath his breath. He raised his voice. “Hedderwick! Just the man. I need to be on my way, but Muriel’s disappeared. Please convey my thanks for an excellent evening and my apologies for having to leave without thanking her in person.”
Hedderwick, a large, rotund man with a round bald head, raised his hand in farewell. “I’ll make your excuses. Good to see you again.” He nodded to Caro, and continued toward the drawing room.
Michael faced Caro. Raised a brow. “Any further social hurdles you can see?‘
Eyes like silver shards, she opened her lips—
“Oh, there you are, Hedderwick—please tell Muriel I enjoyed myself thoroughly, but I have to get back to Reginald. He’ll worry if I don’t return soon.”
Hedderwick murmured soothingly, standing back as Miss Trice emerged from the drawing room and came bustling toward Michael and Caro. A gaunt but thoroughly good-natured lady, sister of the local vicar, she’d kept house for him for many years and was an active member of the Ladies’ Association.