Her heart swelled; she hadn’t realized his simple acceptance would mean so much, yet it did.
She smiled.
He sat back in the chair, slowly smiled in return. “Where have we got to with the diaries?”
She couldn’t simply change her mind and say yes, she would marry him. Not after last night and all she now understood of both herself and him.
They sat in the parlor a few feet apart and read more of the diaries; while part of her mind followed Camden’s accounts of social gatherings, the rest followed a different tack.
Ever since she’d woken that morning, languorous and exhausted in the rumpled disaster of her bed, she’d been reassessing, reevaluating—hardly surprising given the tectonic shift in the landscape between them that the night had brought. That Michael had wrought. Quite deliberately.
She’d tried to tell herself he hadn’t meant it. That he couldn’t really not care.
One glance at the bruises circling her thighs, the lingering evidence of the intensity that had gripped him, had brought the power that drove him, that when they were together caught her and drove her, too, forcibly to mind.
She’d felt it, experienced it, recognized it; she knew it wasn’t fabricated or false. Indeed, gripped by it, it was impossible to be false, to play false, not between them. She believed in it—that between them that power existed, simply was. Replaying his words, the fervor, the certainty with which he’d made his declarations, she’d come to believe in them, too.
He’d made no subsequent reference to his decision. It seemed to have become a part of him; he clearly felt no need to try to convince her further. He’d told her all he needed to. All he had to.
All she needed to know.
Glancing up, she watched as he turned a page and continued reading. For a long moment, she studied his face, him, drank in his strength, the reliability and steadfastness that was so much a part of him one hardly noticed, then looked down.
There was still something missing in their equation. She and he were in unknown territory; neither had been this way before. She didn’t know what it was that had yet to manifest between them, yet her instincts, instincts she was too experienced to ignore, assured her there was something more. Something they yet lacked that they needed to have, to find, to secure if their relationship, the relationship they both wanted and needed, was to thrive.
That last was now her aim. By freeing her to make her own decision, he’d given her the opportunity to get everything right. More, he’d revealed how important it was to him that their relationship was strong and well founded.
So she wouldn’t let herself get swept away—she would grasp the chance he’d created. She’d wait and keep searching until she found that vital piece; he’d given her the strength to stand against the tide.
They’d gone down to report to Magnus and were climbing the stairs to change for dinner when Hammer strode into the hall. Glancing up, he saw them.
“Mrs. Sutcliffe.”
They halted on the landing. With stately tread, Hammer ascended, then, bowing, proffered his salver. “A lad delivered this to the back door. No reply required, I gather, for he disappeared without a word.”
“Thank you, Hammer.” Caro took the note; her name was printed on it. As Hammer retreated, she unfolded the single sheet.
She glanced at the contents, then held it up so Michael could read over her shoulder. She scanned the words more carefully, then exhaled. “Someone from the Portuguese embassy, do you think?”
Michael considered the careful clerkish script and the phrasing—diplomatic formal.
Should Mrs. Sutcliffe wish to learn the reason behind the recent strange events, she is invited to meet with the writer at her Half Moon Street house tonight at eight o’clock. Provided Mrs. Sutcliffe comes alone, or with only Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby as escort, the writer is willing to reveal all they know. If, however, more people are present, the writer cannot undertake the risk of coming forward and speaking.
The note concluded with the customary formal Yours, et cetera, but unsurprisingly was unsigned.
Caro lowered the sheet and looked at him.
He took the note, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket. “Yes, I agree—it sounds like a foreign aide.” He met her eyes. “Sligo, Devil’s majordomo, has been quietly putting the word about that we’re looking for information.”
“And here it is.” She held his gaze. “We are going, aren’t we? One foreign aide in my house—that’s no great risk, surely?”
Expression impassive, Michael waved up the stairs. Caro turned and went; he grasped the moment to consider his response.
Instinct was pulling him one way, experience and Caro’s common-sense assessment in another. Aside from all else, it was already after seven o’clock; if he alerted any of the Cynsters, it was unlikely they could take up any position covertly before eight.
And if instead they were seen…no more than Caro did he believe their would-be informant would appear. Diplomatic games had rules like any other; a show of trust was essential.
They gained the top of the stairs. Caro halted and turned to him. He met her gaze, read her question, curtly nodded. “We’ll go. Just you and me.”