She glanced again at Michael, acknowledged that Therese had been right there, too. With Camden, she’d always been in his shadow—he’d been the great man, the celebrated ambassador. Michael was a different proposition—a completely different man. A relationship between them would be—and would be seen and accepted as being—a full partnership, a coming together of equals, each needed by the other.
Oh, yes, Therese had been right. Caro felt the inward surge of recognition, of the desire to step into the position that was there before her. The tug of the flood tide.
It could be so different, this time.
She looked at Michael; when he glanced at her, she merely smiled and tightened her hold on his arm. Felt, an instant later, his hand close more firmly over hers as they excused themselves and moved on.
They’d just joined the next group when they saw Liverpool beckon. Michael stepped back, tried to draw her with him, but she stood firm. “No.” She spoke softly. “You go. It might be confidential.”
He hesitated, then nodded and left her.
Two minutes later, while she was quietly following the group’s discussion, she felt a touch on her arm, turned to see Harriet smiling.
“A quick word, Caro, then I really must go.” Harriet glanced across the room at Michael. “It’s been a long evening.”
Murmuring agreement, Caro stepped aside, joining Harriet by the wall.
Harriet spoke quickly; happiness threaded through her words. “I just wanted you to know how thrilled I am—well, we all are, really, not only that you’re back, but on Michael’s arm.” Harriet put a hand on Caro’s wrist, a reassuring touch. “It’s such a relief—I can’t tell you how worried I was that he wouldn’t bestir himself.”
Harriet’s assumption was obvious. One glance at her face reassured Caro that Harriet wasn’t attempting to pressure her; Harriet’s bright eyes and open expression made it abundantly clear she’d taken a wedding between Michael and Caro for granted, a decision already made if not announced.
Harriet rattled on, “My main concern, of course, was the time!”
Caro blinked; Harriet continued without prompting, “Now that Canning has all but officially vacated the F.O., then the appointment has to be made in September, and it’s already August.” She blew out a breath, her gaze going to Michael. “He always was one to leave things until the last minute, but really!”
Then she smiled, and looked at Caro. “At least from now on, it’ll be your job to keep him up to the mark.”
Giving silent thanks for her years of training, she managed a smile.
Harriet continued chatting; one part of Caro’s mind monitored her words. Most of her mind was fixed on one fact: September was only weeks away.
20
If Michael had been quiet on the way to the Osterleys’, Caro was silent, sunk in her thoughts, all the way home. Michael, too, seemed absorbed, presumably thinking of his pending appointment; the likelihood made her thoughts churn even more.
Arriving in Upper Grosvenor Street, they climbed the stairs. Magnus had left the Osterleys’ an hour before them; upstairs, all was quiet. With a light touch on her hand, Michael parted from her at her door and continued on to his room to undress.
Caro entered her bedchamber; Fenella jumped up from the chair on which she’d been dozing and came to help her disrobe. For the first time since coming to Upper Grosvenor Street, Caro clung to the moments, let them spin out; Michael wouldn’t come to her until he heard Fenella pass his room on her way to the servants’ stair.
Carol had so much to think about; everything seemed to have rushed on her at once, yet she knew in reality that wasn’t so. She’d been reassessing for days, even weeks—ever since Michael had so definitively left the decision about whether they should wed to her. Not resigning his goal, but acknowledging her right
to choose her own life. He’d deliberately placed the reins of their relationship in her hand and closed her fingers about them.
What she hadn’t until the last hour fully appreciated was that, with complete understanding and certainly thus far unshakable resolve, he’d handed her the reins to his career, too.
Clad in a diaphanous nightgown covered by a silk robe barely opaque enough for decency, she went to stand before the uncurtained window, staring out over the rear garden while Fenella tidied.
Deliberately, she looked into the future—considered whether she should simply acquiesce and let the flood tide sweep her on. Imagined, weighed, recalled all Therese Osbaldestone had said, all she’d seen and comprehended that evening, before sighing and rejecting that course. Her resistance was too deep, the scars too deeply scored, to pursue that path—not again.
It had been so very wrong the last time.
Yet she was no longer set against marriage, not to Michael. If they had time—enough for her to be sure that what bound them was what she thought it was, that that indefinable something was as strong and, most importantly, as enduring as she thought it might be—then yes, she could see herself happily becoming his wife.
There was no other impediment—just her and the lessons fate had taught her.
Just her memories, and their ineradicable effect.
She could not, again, agree to a marriage by default. She could not allow herself to be swept into it with nothing more than hope as a guarantee. The first time she’d gaily jumped in and let the tide carry her away; it had landed her on a shore she had no wish to visit again.