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 Camden’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.