He nodded. “I’ll send a message.”
“No.” The reproof was gentle, but definite. “Go and see him. Drop by while passing.”
He met her eyes, then inclined his head. There were few he would take direct guidance from, but Caro’s edicts in such matters he judged to be beyond question. She was, indeed, the perfect person—the unquestionably best-qualified person—to sound out regarding his direction with Elizabeth, her niece.
The tea arrived, brought by Mrs. Entwhistle, who had clearly come to see Caro. She took her celebrity in stride; he watched as she said all the right things, asking after Mrs. Entwhistle’s son, complimenting her on the delicate cream puffs arranged in a dish. Mrs. Entwhistle glowed and retreated, thoroughly pleased.
While Caro poured, Michael wondered if she even registered her performance, if it was calculated or simply came naturally. Then she handed him his cup and smiled, and he decided that while her responses might once have been learned, they were now ingrained. Essentially spontaneous.
Simply the way she was.
While they sipped and consumed—she nibbled, he ate—they exchanged news of mutual acquaintances. They moved in the same circles, were both extremely well connected on both diplomatic and political fronts; it was supremely easy to fill the time.
The knack of making polite conversation came readily, fluidly, to them both, a skill attesting to their experience. In substance, however, he would bow to her; her comments displayed an insight into people and their reactions that surpassed his own, that struck deeper and truer, illuminating motives.
It was pleasant in the sunshine. He studied her while they traded information; to his eyes she glowed with confidence, not the sort that sparkled and gleamed, but a quiet, steady assurance that shone through, that seemed bone-deep, infinitely sure, almost serene.
She’d grown to be a remarkably calm woman, one who effortlessly cast an aura of peace.
It occurred to him that time was passing—oh so easily. He set down his cup. “So, what are your plans?”
She met his gaze, then opened her eyes wide. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” There was a hint of self-deprecatory humor in her tone. “I traveled for some months while in mourning, so I’ve satisfied that urge. I did the Season this year—it was lovely to meet friends again, pick up the threads, but…” She grimaced lightly. “That’s not enough to fill a life. I stayed with Angela this time—I’m not sure yet what I want to do with the house, if I want to open it again and live there, hold court like some literary hostess, or perhaps immerse myself in good works….” Her lips lifted, her eyes teased. “Can you see me doing any of those things?”
The silver blue of her gaze seemed layered—open, honest, yet with intriguing depths. “No.” He considered her, sitting so relaxed on his terrace; he couldn’t see her as anything other than she’d been—an ambassador’s lady. “I think you should leave the good works to Muriel, and a court would be too restricted a stage.”
She laughed, a golden sound that merged with the gilded afternoon. “You have a politician’s tongue.” She said it approvingly. “But enough of me—what of you? Were you in London this Season?”
It was the opening he’d been angling for; he let his lips twist wryly. “I was, but various committees and bills proved more distracting than anticipated.” He elaborated, content to let her draw him out, to form for herself a picture of his life—and his need of a wife. She was too knowledgeable for him to need to spell it out; she would see—and be there to explain and assure Elizabeth when the time came.
There was a subtle attraction in speaking with someone who knew his world and understood its nuances. Watching Caro’s face was a pleasure—seeing the expressions flit over her features, watching her gestures, so elegant and graceful, glimpsing the intelligence and humor in her eyes.
Caro, too, was content, yet as he watched her, so she, too, from behind her polished facade, watched him, and waited.
Eventually, he met her gaze and simply asked, “Why were you heading this way?”
The lane led here and only here; they both knew it.
She let her eyes light, beamed a brilliant smile his way. “Thank you for reminding me. What with all this catching up, I’d quite forgotten, yet it’s all very apt.”
Leaning her forearms on the table, she fixed him with her most beguiling look. “As I said, I’m staying with Geoffrey, but old habits die hard. I know quite a few people from the ministries and embassies who are spending their summer in the neighborhood—I’ve organized a dinner
for tonight, but…” She let her smile turn rueful. “I’m one gentleman short. I came to prevail on you to help me balance my table—you, at least, will appreciate how necessary to my peace of mind that is.”
He was charmed and had to laugh.
“Now,” she continued, ruthlessly gilding the lily, “we have a small party from the Portuguese embassy, and three from the Austrian, and—” She proceeded to outline her guest list; no politician worth his salt would refuse the opportunity to bump such elbows.
He made no pretense of doing so, but smiled easily. “I’ll be delighted to oblige.”
“Thank you.” She gave him her very best smile; she might be a trifle out of practice, but it still seemed to work.
A rattle and clop on the graveled drive reached them; they both looked, then rose as Hardacre walked Henry, once more harnessed to her gig, around.
Hardacre saw them and ducked his head. “Seems right as rain now—you shouldn’t have any trouble with him.”
Caro gathered her reticule and rounded the table. Michael took her elbow and steadied her down the terrace steps. She thanked Hardacre, then allowed Michael to help her up to the gig’s seat. Taking the reins, she smiled at him. “At eight o’clock then—I promise you won’t be bored.”
“I’m sure I won’t be.” Michael saluted her and stepped back.