The Ideal Bride

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?”

She nodded. “Indubitably.”

It was simple enough to remain by her side as they circled the drawing room, stopping by each knot of guests, exchanging introductions and greetings. His memory was almost as good as Caro’s; she’d been right in predicting the presence of most of those there. Those she hadn’t foreseen included two gentlemen from the Foreign Office and one from the Board of Trade, along with their wives. All three men instantly recognized him; each found a moment to stop by his side and explain his connection with the duke and the count, and the still-absent ambassador.

Turning back to the group with whom he and Caro were engaged, Michael discovered that Ferdinand Leponte had insinuated himself into the circle on Caro’s other side.

“Leponte.” He and the Portuguese exchanged nods—polite but, on Leponte’s part, suspicious and assessing. Having already taken Ferdinand’s measure, he resigned himself to, at least outwardly, ignoring the Portuguese’s attempts to—why mince words?—seduce his intended bride.

Creating a diplomatic incident would not endear him to the Prime Minister. Besides, Caro’s formidable reputation—the one Ferdinand had yet to properly comprehend—was clear proof that she was unlikely to need any help in seeing the Portuguese off. Better men had tried and fallen at her gates.

While chatting with the Polish charge d’affaires, from the corner of his eye Michael watched Ferdinand deploy what he had to admit was considerable charm attempting to draw Caro away from him; her hand still rested on his arm. He was acutely aware of the weight of her fin-gers; they didn’t shift, flicker, or grip, just remained steadfastly where they were. From what he caught of their exchanges, the Portuguese was making little headway.

Ferdinand: “Your eyes, dear Caro, are silver moons in the heaven of your face.”

Caro, brows rising: “Really? Two moons. How strange.”

There was just the right ripple of amusement in her tone to totally depress any loverlike pretensions Ferdinand was nursing. Glancing his way, Michael saw irritation flash fleetingly through Ferdinand’s dark eyes, a fractional downward tightening of his mobile mouth before his charming mask re-formed, and he rattled in once more, tilting at Caro’s walls.

Michael could have informed him that such an approach was pointless. It was necessary to take Caro by surprise and so get inside her defenses; once up, in place, guarding her virtue—why, in her circumstances, her virtue required such vigilant preservation he hadn’t yet divined—those defenses were virtually impossible to shake. Certainly not in any social setting. They’d been forged, tested, and perfected in what must have been a highly exacting arena.

Returning to his conversation with the charge d’affaires, he confirmed that Mr. Kosminsky would, indeed, be attending Caro’s ball and was willing to assist in ensuring said ball was not marred by any unhappy occurrence.

The diminuitive Pole puffed out his chest. “It will be an honor to serve in protecting Mrs. Sutcliffe’s peace of mind.”

Hearing her name, Caro grasped the opportunity to turn to Kosminsky. She smiled, and the little man glowed. “Thank you. I know it’s an imposition of sorts, yet—”

She glibly bound Kosminsky to be her willing slave, at least as far as keeping her ball trouble-free.

Standing between them, Michael silently appreciated her performance, then he glanced at Ferdinand and once again caught a glimpse or chagrin. He realized that Leponte, viewing him as a rival for Caro’s ravors, wasn’t bothering to hide his aggravation at her dismissiveness from him.

Leponte was, however, being careful to hide his reaction from Caro,

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 or 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.”

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 ex-Pound 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?”

The slow beat of the fan faltered, then resumed. “Yes, it is.” The duchess met her eyes and smiled. “We have spent much of the last years with the embassies in Scandanavia.”

“Ah—no wonder the weather here seems warm to you, then.”

“Indeed.” The countess stepped in to ask, “Is this area usually so favored by the diplomatic set during summer?”

Caro nodded. “There’s always a goodly number of the embassy set about—it’s pleasant countryside close to London, and close to the sailing about the Isle of Wight.”

“Ah, yes.” The countess met her gaze. “That, of course, is why Ferdinand would have us here.”

Caro smiled—and wondered. After an instant’s pause, she turned the conversation into other channels. The duchess and countess followed her lead, but seemed disinclined to let her move on to chat with other ladies.

Or so she felt; the gentlemen returned to the drawing room before she had a chance to test them.

Ferdinand was among the first to stroll in. He saw her instantly; smiling, he came to join her.

Michael walked in some way behind Ferdinand; he paused just inside the door, scanning the room—he saw her by the windows, flanked by the duchess and countess.

For one instant, Caro felt a strange dislocation. Across the room, she faced two men. Between her and Michael, Ferdinand, smiling wolfishly, the epitome of Latin handsomeness and overwhelming charm, approached, his gaze locked on her. Then Michael stepped forward. His attractiveness was more subtle, his strength less so. He walked more slowly, more gracefully, yet with his long-legged stride he was soon only paces behind Ferdinand.

She had no doubt of Ferdinand’s intention, but it wasn’t the wolf who commanded her senses. Even as she forced her gaze to Ferdinand’s face, with her usual easy assurance returned his smile, she was infinitely more aware of Michael slowly, purposefully, advancing.

Almost as if the movement had been choreographed, the duchess and countess murmured their excuses, one on either side lightly touched her hands in farewell, then they swept forward. Flowing around Ferdinand with barely a nod, they closed with Michael.

He had to stop and talk with them.

“My dear Caro, you will forgive me, I know, but you are here.” Ferdinand gestured theatrically. “What would you?”

“Indeed, I’ve no idea,” she replied. “What would I?”

Ferdinand took her arm. “My obsession with Camden Sutcliffe— your presence is an opportunity I cannot resist.” He turned her; under his direction, they strolled down the long room. With Ferdinand’s head bent to hers, it would appear they were deep in some discussion; given the present company, it was unlikely any would interrupt.

His expression one of scholarly interest, Ferdinand continued, “I would, if I may, ask more about an aspect that has always intrigued me. Sutcliffe’s house was here—it must have played a considerable part in his life. Must have”—frowning, he searched for phrases—“been the place he retreated to, where he found greatest comfort.”

She raised her brows. “I’m not sure, in Camden’s case, that his country home—his ancestral home—played as large and important a role as one might suppose.”

Why Ferdinand was pursuing such a tack—surely a strange approach to seducing her—escaped her, yet it was a useful topic with which to pass the time. Especially if it served to keep Ferdinand safely distracted from more direct ventures. “Camden didn’t spend much time here—at Sutcliffe Hall—during his lifetime. Or at least, during his years of diplomatic service.”

‘But he grew up here, yes? And this Sutcliffe Hall was his—not just his ancestral home, but it belonged to him, true?“

She nodded. “Yes.”

They strolled on, Ferdinand frowning. “So you are saying he only occasionally visited this Hall during his ambassadorship.”

“That’s right. Usually his visits were fleeting—no more than a day or two, rarely as long as a week, but after the deaths of each of his first two wives he returned to the Hall for some months, so I suppose it’s true to say that the Hall was his ultimate retreat.” She glanced at Ferdinand. “By his wish, he’s buried there, in the old chapel in the grounds.”

“Ah!” Ferdinand nodded as if that last revelation meant much to him.

A disruption within the company had them both looking up; the first of the guests were departing.

Engaged in nodding a distant farewell to the gentleman from the Board of Trade and his wife, Caro didn’t register Ferdinand’s abrupt change of tack until he shifted between her and the rest of the room and, leaning close, murmured, “Dear Caro, it is such a lovely summer night—come walk with me on the terrace.”

Instinctively, she looked toward the terrace, revealed through a pair of open doors that just happened to lie a few paces from them.

To her surprise, she found herself being expertly herded toward the doors.

Instincts briefly warred; it was her practice not to give ground literally or figuratively in such matters, more to spare her would-be seducers than through any concern for her safety—she’d always emerged triumphant from such encounters and had no doubt she always would—yet in this case, her curiosity was aroused.

She acquiesced with a regal inclination of her head and allowed Ferdinand to guide her through the doors and out onto the moonlit flags.

From across the room, Michael watched her slender figure disappear from sight, and inwardly cursed. He didn’t waste time considering what Leponte might be up to; deftly—with the skill that had brought him to the Prime Minister’s notice—he disengaged from the duke and his aide, ostensibly intending to have a word with the gentlemen from the Foreign Office before they departed.

He’d nominated them because they were standing in a group conveniently close to the terrace doors. Cutting smoothly through the other guests, he was aware that the countess and duchess were watching him with increasing agitation. By the time they realized he wasn’t stopping to chat with the last group before the doors…

Ignoring the distant rustle of silks as they moved—too late—to intercept him, he strolled with his usual languid air out onto the terrace.

He barely paused to locate Caro and Leponte, then continued toward them. They stood by the balustrade some little way along, wreathed in shadow yet quite visible; the moon was nearly full. Approaching with lazy, unthreatening strides, he took in the prevailing tensions; Leponte stood close to Caro as she apparently admired the play of moonlight and shadow across the manicured lawns. He was not touching her, although one hand hovered, as if he’d intended to, but had been distracted.

Caro was, if not relaxed, then certainly assured—her usual calm and collected self. The tension that had gripped him faded; she clearly didn’t need him to rescue her.

If anyone needed rescuing, it was Leponte.

That seemed plain as, hearing him, the Portuguese glanced his way. Befuddlement, utter and complete, etched his face.

Drawing near enough to hear their conversation—or rather, Caro’s dissertation on the principles of landscape gardening as propounded by Capability Brown and his followers—Michael understood. He could almost find it in him to feel sorry for Ferdinand.

Caro sensed his approach, glanced his way, and smiled. “I was just explaining to Mr. Leponte that this garden was originally laid out by Capability Brown, and then improved more recently by Humphrey Repton. It’s an amazing example of their combined talents, don’t you think?”

Michael met her gaze, smiled lightly. “Indubitably.”

She rattled on. The duchess and countess had paused in the drawing room doorway; Caro saw them and beckoned. For their part in Ferdinand’s scheme to get her alone, she subjected them to a lecture on gardening that would have made an enthusiast wilt. The countess, looking highly conscious, tried to slip away; Caro linked her arm in hers and extolled the theories of coppicing in unrelenting detail.

Michael stood back and let her have her revenge; although she never stepped over any social line, he was quite certain it was that, and so were her victims. Ferdinand looked sheepish, but also thankful to have her attention deflected from him; Michael wondered just how ruthless she’d been in dismissing Ferdinand’s advances.

Finally, the duchess, edging away, murmured that she had to return to her departing guests. Still enthusing, Caro consented to follow her back into the drawing room.

Ten minutes later, with the company thinning, he interrupted her eloquence. “We have a long drive ahead of us—we should join the exodus.”

She glanced at him, met his gaze. Her eyes were beaten silver, quite impenetrable. Then she blinked, nodded. “Yes—I daresay you’re right.”

Five minutes more saw them taking leave of their hosts; Ferdinand walked with them to the carriage. When Caro paused before the open carriage door and gave him her hand, he bowed over it with courtly flair.

“My dear Mrs. Sutcliffe, I greatly look forward to being present at your ball.” He straightened, met her eyes. “I will look forward to seeing the gardens of Sutcliffe Hall, and to your explanation of their wonders.”

Michael gave the man credit for gumption—few others would have dared. Yet if he’d expected to discompose Caro, he’d misjudged.

She smiled, sweetly, and informed him, “I’m afraid you’ve misread the invitation. The ball is to be held at Bramshaw House, not Sutcliffe Hall.”

Noting Ferdinand’s surprise and the frown that followed it, the frown he quickly hid, Caro inclined her head, all graciousness. “I will look forward to seeing you and your party then.”

Turning to the carriage, she accepted Michael’s hand and climbed up. She sat on the seat facing forward. An instant later, he filled the doorway. He looked at her; in the dimness she couldn’t see his face.

“Shift along.”

She frowned, but he was already looming over her, waiting for her to move so he could sit beside her. An argument with Ferdinand still close enough to hear would be undignified.

Hiding a grimace, she did as he asked. He sat, far too close for her liking, and the footman shut the door. An instant later, the carriage rocked, and they were on their way.

They’d barely started along the drive when Michael asked, “Why was Leponte so put out that your ball will not be at Sutcliffe Hall?”

“I don’t really know. He seems to have developed a fascination for Camden—studying what influences made him what he was.”

“Leponte?”

Michael fell silent. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his large body on the seat beside her. Even though his thigh was not touching hers, she could sense its heat. As usual, his nearness made her feel peculiarly fragile. Delicate.

Finally, he said, “I find that hard to believe.”

So did she. She lightly shrugged, and looked out at the shifting shadows of the forest. “Camden was, after all, extremely successful. Regardless of his present employ, I assume Ferdinand will ultimately step into his uncle’s shoes. Perhaps that’s why he’s here—learning more.”

Michael humphed and looked ahead. He didn’t trust Leponte, not when it came to Caro, not in any respect; he’d assumed his distrust arose from the obvious source—from those primitive possessive instincts she aroused in him. Now, however, in light of the countess’s and duchess’s behavior, in view of that final moment beside the carriage, he was no longer so certain at least part of his distrust didn’t spring from a more professional reaction.

He’d been prepared to accept and manage, even suppress, a distrust that arose from personal emotions; he was a consummate politician after all. Distrust that arose from prickling professional instincts was something else entirely—that could well be too dangerous to ignore, even for a short time.

Recognizing a landmark outside, gauging how much time they still had alone in the darkness of the carriage, he glanced at Caro. “What did you and Leponte talk about at table?”

She leaned against the plush cushions, through the dimness regarded him. “Initially it was the usual small talk, then he started on his tack as a Camden Sutcliffe accolyte with a detailed overview of Cam-den’s career.”

“Accurate, would you say?”

“In all respects he touched on, certainly.”

He could tell by her tone, by the way she paused, that she was puzzled, too. Before he could prompt, she continued, “Then in the drawing room he asked about Sutcliffe Hall, theorizing that the place must have been significant to Camden.”

Through the gloom, he studied her. “Was it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so—I don’t believe Camden thought so. I never detected any great attachment on his part.”

“Hmm.” He settled back, reached out and took her hand. Her fingers fluttered, then quieted; he curled his more firmly around them. “I think”—slowly he lifted her trapped hand to his lips—“that I’ll be keeping an eye on Leponte at the ball, and wherever else we meet him.”

She was watching; he could sense the tension spreading through her. Turning his head, through the gloom he caught her gaze. “For a number of excellent reasons.”

He placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

She watched, then, gaze locked on her hand, drew in a tight breath. An instant passed, then, frowning, she lifted her eyes to his. “What—?”

He raised her hand again, lightly brushed his lips over her knuckles, then, eyes on hers, slowly, with the tip of his tongue, he traced them.

Her response was immediate and strong. A shudder racked her; she briefly closed her eyes.

Before she opened them, he shifted and pulled her to him, his other hand rising to cup and frame her jaw, to angle her face so his lips could cover hers.

He was kissing her—and she was kissing him back—before she had a chance to retreat.

Releasing her hand, he reached for her, drew her more definitely to him. As before, her hands rose to his chest, tensed as if she would resist; he deepened the kiss, and her resistance never came.

Instead… gradually, step by subtle step, he coaxed not just acceptance but willing participation from her. Initially, she seemed to believe that after the first exchange he’d stop—she seemed to be waiting for him to do so. When he didn’t, indeed made it perfectly clear he had no intention of not further indulging, tentatively, hesitantly, she joined him.

Her lips were soft, sweet, her mouth pure temptation; when she offered it, he rejoiced, and took, conscious that some part of her mind was watching, puzzled, almost surprised… why he couldn’t imagine.

She was a delight, one he savored, stretching out the simple moments as he never had before.

He caressed, claimed, then teased, ultimately taunted and got the response—a more fiery, definite, passionate response—that he’d wanted, that he knew she had it in her to give. He wanted that and more—all she had to give—but was tactician enough to realize that with her, each step and stage had to be battled for and won.

The Merry Widow was not going to yield so much as one inch without a fight.

That, very likely, was why so many had failed with her. They’d assumed they could leap ahead, overlook the preliminaries, and instead had stumbled at the very first hurdle.

Kissing her.

If, as it seemed, for some mystical reason she’d got it into her head that she was hopeless at kissing… it was difficult to seduce a woman who wasn’t willing to be kissed.

Secure in his victory, he drew her closer yet, angled his lips over hers. Her breasts brushed his chest; her arms started to slide over his shoulders, then stopped, tensed.

The carriage slowed, then turned into Bramshaw Lane.

With a gasp, she pulled back—enough to hiss his name in warning.

“Sssh.” Inexorably he drew her even deeper into his embrace. “You don’t want to shock your coachman.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Wh—”

He cut off her shocked question in the most efficient way. They had at least seven more minutes before they reached Bramshaw House; he intended to enjoy every one.