He sipped his brandy, looked out, unseeing, and plotted his way forward; he’d never been one to back away from a challenge, even from a challenge he’d never in his wildest dreams imagined he would face.
As matters stood, his task was not to seduce Caro in the customary sense—it appeared he’d already largely succeeded in that, or could succeed whenever he wished. Instead, his true aim—his Holy Grail—was to seduce her into marriage.
His lips twisted wryly; he drained his glass. When he’d headed south from Somersham intent on securing his ideal bride, he’d never imagined he’d face such a battle—that the lady who was his ideal consort would not happily accept his proposal.
So much for blind arrogance.
Turning from the window, he crossed to an armchair. Sinking down, setting his empty glass on the side table, he steepled his fingers; propping his chin on his thumbs, he stared across the room.
Caro was stubborn, resolute.
He was stubborner, and prepared to be relentless.
The only way to undermine her resistance, so strong and entrenched as it clearly was, was to attack its source. Whatever that was.
He needed to find out, and the only way to learn was via Caro.
The best approach seemed obvious. Straightforward, even simple.
First he would get her into his bed, then he’d learn what he needed and do whatever it took to keep her there.
10
The following afternoon, Caro sat in the window seat of the back parlor and embroidered, while across the room Edward and Elizabeth played chess.
She was not good company; she’d spent all morning trying to distract herself with plans for the fete, now only three days away, but she remained upset and angry.
Angry with herself, angry with Michael.
She should have foreseen his direction. She’d deliberately displayed her highly developed social skills in order to demonstrate Elizabeth’s relative lack thereof, so he’d turned his eye from Elizabeth—and fixed it on her!
Damn presumptuous male! Why couldn’t he have simply wanted to…to…to have an affair and all that entailed? Wasn’t she—?
She cut off the thought; she had good reason to know she wasn’t the sort of female who inspired men to lust—not real, basic, raw, cannot-do-without-absolutely-must-have lust, only the sort encouraged by other motives, other wants. Like needing an experienced hostess, or an exceptionally well-trained diplomatic bride!
She seemed destined always to be chosen, never wanted. Never truly desired.
And for that—because for the first time in her life Michael had had her believing otherwise—she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him.
Jabbing her needle into the canvas, she fought to calm her nerves. Apprehension snaked through her; she was very much aware that unless and until he gave up all thought of marrying her she was in danger—more danger than Elizabeth had ever been in.
She’d saved Elizabeth from a loveless political union, but there was no one to save her. If Michael made a formal offer, for the same reasons that would have applied in Elizabeth’s case, it would be even more difficult for her to refuse. As a widow, theoretically she was in charge of her own life, yet she’d lived too long among her peers not to acknowledge that practically speaking, that wasn’t so. If she accepted him, everyone would smile and congratulate her; if she sought to refuse him…
Contemplating the likely outcome did nothing to calm her nerves.
She was sorting through her silks when she heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. Bootsteps—not Geoffrey’s ambling stride but a definite, determined one…her senses leapt. She looked up—just as Michael, attired for riding, appeared in the doorway.
He saw her, briefly glanced at Elizabeth and Edward, who’d looked up in surprise. Without breaking his stride, he directed a nod their way and continued across the room. To her.
She hurriedly gathered her embroidery; he barely gave her time to set it aside before he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet.
He met her gaze. “We need to talk.”
One glance into his eyes, at his set and determined expression, told her arguing was pointless. The way he turned and headed for the door, her hand gripped uncompromisingly tightly in his, underscored that conclusion.
He barely glanced at Edward and Elizabeth. “Do excuse us—we have matters to discuss.”
They were out of the room and he was pacing along the corridor before she’d done more than blink. He was striding too fast; she yanked back on his hand. He flicked her a glance and slowed—a fraction—but his determined progress didn’t stop. Reaching the garden door, he whisked her through. And continued on down the path.