sufficient proximity to ensure they would meet and inevitably touch, the need would grow only more potent, the spark commensurately more powerful, until they let it burn.
The only problem he could see in that was that the woman involved was Caro.
Her reaction wasn’t a surprise. Unlike Ferdinand, he knew the correct interpretation of her nickname. The “Merry Widow” was, as such English nicknames sometimes were, a perverse expression. In Caro’s case, she was an outwardly merry widow in that she was a hostess of some note, but the real meaning was that she’d been chased by the best of them, yet had refused to be caught. Just as red-haired men were often called Bluey she was, in reality a severely chaste widow who never encouraged anyone to imagine otherwise.
She was the opposite of what the term “Merry Widow” led the naive to suppose.
Which meant he was in for a difficult and uncomfortable time of it, at least until he convinced her that her only option was one that would suit her as well as it would suit him.
Savoring the last of his coffee, he considered how long convincing her might take. Considered the hurdles before him. To be the gentleman who tempted the Merry Widow enough to get into her bed, and her…
A challenge indeed.
It would be a diplomatic triumph of an unusual order, even if no one ever knew of his success. But they would, of course; that was part of his plan.
He could pull it off; he was a politician born and bred, and such innate qualities were precisely those required. He just had to finesse his way past Caro’s defenses.
And along the way, when he had her defenseless in his arms, he’d learn what it was that had so upset her, and if he could, put it right.
Deeming it wise to let the day go by, to let her normal, natural confidence reassert itself and assure her she was safe, that he posed no threat to her and so didn’t need to be kept at a distance, he schooled himself to sit in his study and deal with the months’ worth of accounts and minor details his agent had dutifully left piled on his desk.
Two hours later, he was steadily plodding through the pile when Carter tapped on the door and entered.
“Mrs. Sutcliffe has called, sir.”
He checked his memory. “Which Mrs. Sutcliffe?” Caro? Or one of Camden’s nieces-by-marriage‘?
Mrs. Caroline, sir. She’s in the drawing room.“ Thank you, Carter.” He rose, wondering, then inwardly shrugged. He’d learn soon enough.
When he entered the drawing room, Caro was standing before the windows looking out over the front lawn. Sunbeams lanced through her cloud of frizzy hair, striking copper and red glints from the golden brown. Her gown was a pale blue a few shades darker than her eyes; fine and summer light, it clung to her figure.
She heard him and turned, smiled.
And he instantly knew she was a long way from believing him un-threatening. As usual, however, it was only instinct that told him so; Caro herself gave nothing away.
“I hope you don’t mind—I’ve come to sound you out and pick your brains.”
He returned her smile, waved her to the chaise. “How can I help?”
Caro grasped the moment of crossing to the chaise, gathering her skirts and sinking gracefully down, then waiting for him to lounge, relaxed but attentive in the armchair facing her, to marshal her thoughts and dragoon her wits out of the morass of irrational panic they’d developed a habit of sinking into every time the possibility of Michael’s coming close to her loomed.
She didn’t understand her sudden sensitivity; she could barely believe that after all her years of extensive worldly experience, she was now—here in deepest Hampshire—falling victim to such an affliction. Determined to conquer it, or at the very least ignore it, she clung to her pose of assured serenity. “I’ve decided
The only problem he could see in that was that the woman involved was Caro.
Her reaction wasn’t a surprise. Unlike Ferdinand, he knew the correct interpretation of her nickname. The “Merry Widow” was, as such English nicknames sometimes were, a perverse expression. In Caro’s case, she was an outwardly merry widow in that she was a hostess of some note, but the real meaning was that she’d been chased by the best of them, yet had refused to be caught. Just as red-haired men were often called Bluey she was, in reality a severely chaste widow who never encouraged anyone to imagine otherwise.
She was the opposite of what the term “Merry Widow” led the naive to suppose.
Which meant he was in for a difficult and uncomfortable time of it, at least until he convinced her that her only option was one that would suit her as well as it would suit him.
Savoring the last of his coffee, he considered how long convincing her might take. Considered the hurdles before him. To be the gentleman who tempted the Merry Widow enough to get into her bed, and her…
A challenge indeed.
It would be a diplomatic triumph of an unusual order, even if no one ever knew of his success. But they would, of course; that was part of his plan.
He could pull it off; he was a politician born and bred, and such innate qualities were precisely those required. He just had to finesse his way past Caro’s defenses.
And along the way, when he had her defenseless in his arms, he’d learn what it was that had so upset her, and if he could, put it right.
Deeming it wise to let the day go by, to let her normal, natural confidence reassert itself and assure her she was safe, that he posed no threat to her and so didn’t need to be kept at a distance, he schooled himself to sit in his study and deal with the months’ worth of accounts and minor details his agent had dutifully left piled on his desk.
Two hours later, he was steadily plodding through the pile when Carter tapped on the door and entered.
“Mrs. Sutcliffe has called, sir.”
He checked his memory. “Which Mrs. Sutcliffe?” Caro? Or one of Camden’s nieces-by-marriage‘?
Mrs. Caroline, sir. She’s in the drawing room.“ Thank you, Carter.” He rose, wondering, then inwardly shrugged. He’d learn soon enough.
When he entered the drawing room, Caro was standing before the windows looking out over the front lawn. Sunbeams lanced through her cloud of frizzy hair, striking copper and red glints from the golden brown. Her gown was a pale blue a few shades darker than her eyes; fine and summer light, it clung to her figure.
She heard him and turned, smiled.
And he instantly knew she was a long way from believing him un-threatening. As usual, however, it was only instinct that told him so; Caro herself gave nothing away.
“I hope you don’t mind—I’ve come to sound you out and pick your brains.”
He returned her smile, waved her to the chaise. “How can I help?”
Caro grasped the moment of crossing to the chaise, gathering her skirts and sinking gracefully down, then waiting for him to lounge, relaxed but attentive in the armchair facing her, to marshal her thoughts and dragoon her wits out of the morass of irrational panic they’d developed a habit of sinking into every time the possibility of Michael’s coming close to her loomed.
She didn’t understand her sudden sensitivity; she could barely believe that after all her years of extensive worldly experience, she was now—here in deepest Hampshire—falling victim to such an affliction. Determined to conquer it, or at the very least ignore it, she clung to her pose of assured serenity. “I’ve decided
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