To her room. To sink down on her bed and try to work out what had happened. That Michael had kissed her—that he’d wanted to and managed to—was strange enough, but why had she kissed him back?
Mortification washed over her; rising, she went to the washstand, poured cold water from the ewer into the basin, and washed her warm face. Patting her cheeks dry, she remembered, heard again his gently amused tone. He’d said he’d teach her, but he wouldn’t of course. He’d only said that to gloss over the awkward moment.
She returned to the bed, sinking down on the edge. Her pulse was still galloping, her nerves in a tangle, yet the knot was not one she recognized.
The shadows progressed across the floor while she tried to make sense of what had occurred, and even more what she’d felt.
When the gong for luncheon rang through the house, she blinked and looked up—in the mirror of her dressing table across the room, she saw her face, her expression soft, her fingers lightly tracing her lips.
With a muttered curse, she lowered her hand, stood, shook out her skirts, and headed for the door.
Chapter 7
She would avoid him henceforth; it was the only viable solution. She certainly was not going to spend her time imagining what learning to kiss under his tutelage would be like.
She had a ball to organize and lots of guests to house—more than enough to keep her busy.
And that evening she had a dinner to attend at Leadbetter Hall, where the Portuguese delegation was spending the summer.
Leadbetter Hall was near Lyndhurst. The invitation had not included Edward; in the circumstances, that wasn’t surprising. She’d ordered the carriage for seven-thirty; a few minutes past the appointed time, she left her room suitably gowned and coiffed, her rose magenta silk gown draped to perfection, cut to make the most of her less-than-impressive bosom. A long strand of pearls interspersed with amethysts circled her throat once before hanging to her waist. Pearl and amethyst drops dangled from her ears; the same jewels adorned the gold filigree comb that anchored the mass of her unruly hair.
That hair, thick, springy, and all but impossible to tame—to make conform to any fashionable style—had been the bane of her existence until a supremely haughty but well-disposed archduchess had advised her to stop trying to fight a battle destined to be lost, and instead embrace the inevitable as a mark of individuality.
The ascerbic recommendation had not immediately changed her view, but gradually she’d realized that the person most bothered by her hair was herself, and if she stopped agonizing over it and instead took its oddity in her stride—even embraced it as the archduchess had suggested—then others were, indeed, inclined to see it simply as a part of her uniqueness.
Now, if truth be told, the relative uniqueness of her appearance buoyed her; the individuality was something she clung to. Gliding to the stairs, hearing her skirts sussurating about her, reassured that she looked well, she put a gloved hand to the balustrade and started down.
Her gaze lowered to the front hall, to where Catten stood waiting to open the front door. Serenely, she glided down the last flight—a well-shaped head of dark brown locks atop a pair of broad shoulders, elegantly clad, came into view in the corridor running alongside the stairs. Then Michael turned, looked up, and saw her.
She slowed; taking in his attire, she inwardly cursed. But there was nothing she could do; returning his smile, she continued her descent. He strolled to the bottom of the stairs to meet her, offered his hand as she neared.
“Good evening.” She kept her smile plastered in place as she surrendered her fingers to his strong clasp. “I take it you, too, have been invited to dine at Leadbetter Hall?”
His eyes held hers. “Indeed. I thought, in the circumstances, I might share your carriage.”
Geoffrey had followed Michael from the study. “An excellent idea, especially with those scoundrels who attacked Miss Trice still at large.”
She raised her brows. “I hardly think they’d attack a carriage.”
“Who’s to say?” Geoffrey exchanged a distinctly masculine glance with Michael. “Regardless, it’s only sensible that Michael escort you.”
That, unfortunately, was impossible to argue. Resigning herself to the inevitable—and really, despite the silly expectation tightening her nerves, what had she to fear?—she smiled diplomatically and inclined her head. “Indeed.” She lifted a brow at Michael. “Are you ready?”
He met her gaze, smiled. “Yes.” Drawing her to his side, he laid her hand on his sleeve. “Come—let’s away.”
Lifting her head, drawing in a deep breath, ignoring the tension that had escalated dramatically now he’d moved so close, she regally nodded to Geoffrey and consented to be led to the waiting carriage.
Michael handed her up, then followed. He sat on the seat opposite her, watching while she fussed with her skirts, then straightened her silver-spangled shawl. The footman shut the door; the carriage lurched, then rolled off. He caught Caro’s eye. “Have you any idea who else will be present tonight?”
Her brows rose. “Yes, and no.”
He listened while she listed those she knew would be present, digressing to give him a potted history of the sort of information most useful for him to know, then elaborating on those she suspected might also have been summoned to sup with the Portuguese.
Sitting back in the shadows of the carriage, lips curving, he wondered if she was even conscious of her performance—the exact response he would have wished for from his wife. Her knowledge was wide, her grasp of what he most needed to know superior; while the carriage rumbled along the leafy lanes, he continued to question, to encourage her to interact with him both as he wished, and also in the manner with which she was most comfortable.
That last was his real goal. While her information would certainly be of help, his primary aim was to put her at her ease. To encourage her to focus on the diplomatic milieu to which she was so accustomed, and in which she was a consummate participant.
Time enough to engage with her more personally later, on their way home.
Aware that on the return journey she’d be in a much more approachable mood, one more amenable to his intentions, if she’d passed a pleasant evening to that point, he set out to, as far as he was able, ensure her enjoyment of the night.
They reached Leadbetter Hall in good time, alighting before the steps leading up to imposing doors. He escorted her through the doors to where the duchess and countess stood waiting just inside the high-ceilinged front hall.
The ladies exchanged greetings, complimenting each other on their toilettes, then the duchess turned to him. “We are delighted to receive you, Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby. It is our hope that we will do so many more times in the coming years.”
Straightening from his bow, he replied with easy assurance, sensing Caro’s gaze on his face; turning from greeting the countess, he caught her approving glance.
Almost as if she were starting to view him as a protege… he hid the true tenor of his smile. With his customary elegant confidence, he took her arm and steered her into the drawing room.
They paused on the threshold, glancing swiftly around, getting their bearings. There was a brief hiatus in the hum of conversations as those already there turned to look, then people smiled and returned to their discussions.
He glanced at Caro; arrow-straight beside him, she all but vibrated with pleasurable expectation. Confidence, assurance, and serenity, all were there in her face, in her expression, in her stance. His gaze drifted over her, surreptitously drank her in; he again felt a surge of primitive emotion, a simple possessiveness.
She was the wife he needed, and intended to have.
Recalling his plan, he turned her toward the fireplace. “The duke and count first, I think?”