Michael looked at Caro. “Are you in a hurry? I could lend you a gig and horse if you are.”
‘No, no.“ She waved aside the offer with a smile. ”An hour of peace would be welcome.“
He recalled, reached solicitously for her arm. “Would you care for tea?”
“That would be delightful.” Caro smiled more definitely as he settled her hand on his sleeve. With a nod for Hardacre, she let Michael steer her toward the house. Her nerves were still flickering, twitching, hardly surprising, yet the panic of being in a runaway gig was already fading—who could have predicted that near-disaster would turn out so well? “Is Mrs. Entwhistle still your housekeeper?”
“Yes. None of the staff have changed, not for years.”
She looked ahead at the solid stone house with its gabled roof and dormer windows. They were walking through an orchard, the dappled shade sweet with the scent of swelling fruit. Between that and the back door lay a rambling herb garden bisected by a flagged path; to the left beyond a low wall lay the kitchen garden. “But that’s what draws us back, isn’t it?” She glanced at him, caught his eye. “That things stay comfortingly the same.”
He held her gaze for a moment. “I hadn’t really thought… but you’re right.” He stopped to let her precede him up the narrow path. “Will you be remaining at Bramshaw for long?”
She grinned, knowing he, now behind her, couldn’t see. “I’ve only just arrived.” In response to a panicked summons from Elizabeth, her niece. She glanced back at him. “I expect to be here for some weeks.”
They reached the back door; Michael leaned past her to open it, conscious as he did of her—just her. As he followed her into the dim corridor, directing her to the drawing room, he registered how not simply feminine, but female she was. How much as a woman she impinged on his senses, with her slender yet curvaceous figure gowned in filmy muslin.
There was nothing the least unusual about the gown; it was Caro herself who was unusual, and that in more ways than one.
Following her into the drawing room, he tugged the bellpull. When Gladys, the maid, appeared, he ordered tea.
Caro had strolled to the long windows at the end of the room; she smiled at Gladys, who bobbed and left, then she looked at him. “It’s such a lovely afternoon—shall we sit out on the terrace and enjoy the sunshine?”
“Why not?” Joining her, he set the French doors wide. He followed her onto the flagged terrace to where a wrought-iron table and two chairs stood perfectly placed to capture the sunshine and the vista over the front lawns.
He held one chair for her, then, circling the table, took the other. There was a frown in her eyes when she lifted them to his.
“I can’t remember—have you a butler?”
“No. We did years ago, but the house was closed up for some time, and he moved on.” He grimaced. “I suppose I should look around for one.”
Her brows rose. “Indeed.” Her expression stated that a local Member should certainly have a butler. “But if you’re quick, you won’t need to look far.”
He looked his question; she smiled. “Remember Jeb Carter? He left Fritham village to train as a butler under his uncle in London. He apparently did well, but was seeking to return to the district so he could better watch over his mother. Muriel was searching for a butler— again—and she hired him. Unfortunately Carter, as so many before him, failed to meet Muriel’s exacting standards, so she let him go. That was only yesterday—he’s currently staying at his mother’s cottage.”
“I see.” He studied her eyes, hoping he was reading the messages in the silvery blue accurately. “So you think I should hire him?”
She smiled one of her quick, approving, warming smiles. “I think you should see if he would suit. You know him and his family—he’s honest as the day is long, and the Carters were always good workers.‘
He nodded. “I’ll send a message.”
“No.” The reproof was gentle, but definite. “Go and see him. Drop by while passing.”
He met her eyes, then inclined his head. There were few he would take direct guidance from, but Caro’s edicts in such matters he judged to be beyond question. She was, indeed, the perfect person—the unquestionably best-qualified person—to sound out regarding his direction with Elizabeth, her niece.
The tea arrived, brought by Mrs. Entwhistle, who had clearly come to see Caro. She took her celebrity in stride; he watched as she said all the right things, asking after Mrs. Entwhistle’s son, complimenting her on the delicate cream puffs arranged in a dish. Mrs. Entwhistle glowed and retreated, thoroughly pleased.
While Caro poured, Michael wondered if she even registered her performance, if it was calculated or simply came naturally. Then she handed him his cup and smiled, and he decided that while her responses might once have been learned, they were now ingrained. Essentially spontaneous.
Simply the way she was.
While they sipped and consumed—she nibbled, he ate—they exchanged news of mutual acquaintances. They moved in the same circles, were both extremely well connected on both diplomatic and political fronts; it was supremely easy to fill the time.
The knack of making polite conversation came readily, fluidly, to them both, a skill attesting to their experience. In substance, however, he would bow to her; her comments displayed an insight into people and their reactions that surpassed his own, that struck deeper and truer, illuminating motives.
It was pleasant in the sunshine. He studied her while they traded information; to his eyes she glowed with confidence, not the sort that sparkled and gleamed, but a quiet, steady assurance that shone through, that seemed bone-deep, infinitely sure, almost serene.
She’d grown to be a remarkably calm woman, one who effortlessly cast an aura of peace.
It occurred to him that time was passing—oh so easily. He set down his cup. “So, what are your plans?‘
She met his gaze, then opened her eyes wide. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” There was a hint of self-deprecatory humor in her tone. “I traveled for some months while in mourning, so I’ve satisfied that urge. I did the Season this year—it was lovely to meet friends again, pick up the threads, but…” She grimaced lightly. “That’s not enough to fill a life. I stayed with Angela this time—I’m not sure yet what I want to do with the house, if I want to open it again and live there, hold court like some literary hostess, or perhaps immerse myself in good works…” Her lips lifted, her eyes teased. “Can you see me doing any of those things?”
The silver blue of her gaze seemed layered—open, honest, yet with intriguing depths. “No.” He considered her, sitting so relaxed on his terrace; he couldn’t see her as anything other than she’d been—an ambassador’s lady. “I think you should leave the good works to Muriel, and a court would be too restricted a stage.”
She laughed, a golden sound that merged with the gilded afternoon. “You have a politician’s tongue.” She said it approvingly. “But enough of me—what of you? Were you in London this Season?”
It was the opening he’d been angling for; he let his lips twist wryly. “I was, but various committees and bills proved more distracting than anticipated.” He elaborated, content to let her draw him out, to form for herself a picture of his life—and his need of a wife. She was too knowledgeable for him to need to spell it out; she would see—and be there to explain and assure Elizabeth when the time came.
There was a subtle attraction in speaking with someone who knew his world and understood its nuances. Watching Caro’s face was a pleasure—seeing the expressions flit over her features, watching her gestures, so elegant and graceful, glimpsing the intelligence and humor in her eyes.
Caro, too, was content, yet as he watched her, so she, too, from behind her polished facade, watched him, and waited.
Eventually, he met her gaze and simply asked, “Why were you heading this way?”
The lane led here and only here; they both knew it.