Heat spread beneath her skin, but this time in a gentle wave, not a rushing, tumultuous tide.
He caressed her—all of her—his touch assured yet never hurried, never driven. This, she concluded, was to be a slow engagement, each moment stretching, then sliding effortlessly into the next, each crest of sensation peaking, extending, before he let her fall back, catch her breath, and move on.
Through a landscape she saw only through touch, knew only via tactile sensation. Gentle, repetitive, tactile stimulation.
His hand moved over her bottom, fingers dipped, stroked, caressed. Until her need built, until she shifted her hips, gently moaned.
She started to turn, expecting him to roll her onto her back and part her thighs. Instead, her shoulder met his chest, her hip his groin.
“Other way,” he murmured, pressing her back, his voice deep, mur-murously sultry, stirring the thick molten heat inside her.
He edged her upper thigh higher, angled her hips over, then she felt him, hard, hot, rigid, press in.
Sink slowly in.
She shut her eyes tight, clung to the moment, exhaled softly as it ended, leaving him deeply inside her.
Then he moved. As slow and sultry as the sunshine, as openly seductive as the breeze. His body moved against hers in a slow, surging evocative rhythm, a cadence he refused to vary even when she gasped, when her senses coiled tight, and she sank her fingers into his thigh.
He rode her gentle thrust after thrust until she could stand it no more, until a scream broke from her throat and she fractured, and the wonder poured in. It filled her up, and washed through her, leaving her blissfully free on some far distant shore.
And still he filled her, each controlled thrust definite and sure. She was dimly aware when he reached his own limit and release caught him, racked him, then the storm rolled on and he lay beside her on that golden shore.
Chapter 15
They walked home along the path, through the glory of the late afternoon. They exchanged glances, light touches aplenty, but few words; at that moment, a moment out of time, they needed none.
Caro couldn’t think—couldn’t form any opinion over what had transpired, couldn’t make those glorious moments of sharing conform to any pattern she’d heard of or recognized. What had happened simply was; all she needed to do was accept it.
Beside her, Michael walked steadily, holding back branches so she could pass safely by, ready to grasp her arm and steady her if she slipped, but otherwise not holding her, leaving her free even while in his mind he acknowledged she was not, that he would never let her go. As they tramped through the woods and meadows, he tried to understand, conscious of a change, a realignment, a refinement of his feelings, a more acute defining of his direction.
They passed through the gate in the hedge, and walked up through the gardens. As they stepped onto the stretch of lawn leading to the terrace, they heard voices.
They glanced up and saw Muriel talking to Edward, who was looking faintly harassed.
Edward saw them; Muriel followed his gaze, then drew herself up and waited for them to climb the steps.
As they neared, both smiling easily, effortlessly adopting their social personas, Michael saw Muriel’s eyes fix on Caro’s face, faintly flushed, whether from their earlier exertions or their long walk in the sun that had shone throughout the day he couldn’t say. What Muriel made of the sight he couldn’t guess either; before she could comment, he held out his hand. “Good afternoon, Muriel. I must congratulate you again on the fete—it was a marvelous day and a wonderful turnout. You must be thoroughly gratified.”
Muriel surrendered her hand, allowing him grasp her fingers. “Well, yes. I was indeed most happy with the way things turned out.” Her tone was gracious, faintly condescending.
She exchanged nods with Caro, then continued, “I came to ask if there had been any difficulties at all with the diplomatic delegations. It was such an unusual idea to encourage them to attend—we need to gauge the success of the strategy in case we decide to try something similar again.”
Muriel locked her gaze on Caro’s face. “I have to say I find it hard to credit that the diplomatic crowd, especially the foreigners, found much to excite them at such an event. As Sutcliffes, we have a certain reputation to uphold—we don’t want to be associated with any suggestion of foisting boring entertainments on those in diplomatic circles.”
Beneath his polished veneer, Michael bridled; Edward, not so experienced in hiding his feelings, stiffened. Muriel’s accusation, for that’s what it amounted to, was outrageous.
Yet Caro simply laughed, lightly, apparently ingenuously—she put both him and Edward to shame. “You’re worrying about nothing, Muriel, I assure you.” She laid a hand briefly, reassuringly, on Muriel’s arm. “The diplomatic crowd, especially the foreigners, were delighted one and all.”
Muriel frowned. “They weren’t just being polite?”
Caro shook her head. “It’s the balls and glittering functions of which that crowd has a surfeit—simple pleasures, relaxing entertainments in the country—those are, for them, golden moments.”
Smiling, she gestured down the terrace; still frowning, Muriel turned and walked beside her.
“From the diplomatic standpoint, and I’m sure Edward and Michael will bear me out in this”—with a wave, Caro included them as they fell in behind—“everything went perfectly, without the slightest hitch.”
Muriel stared at the flagstones. After a moment, she asked, her tone flat, “So you don’t have any suggestions on how we might improve things?”
Caro halted, her expression openly pensive, then she shook her head. “I can’t think how one might improve on perfection.” The words held a glimmer of steel. She caught Muriel’s eye and smiled graciously. “Now, will you stay for tea?”
Muriel looked at her, then shook her head. “No, thank you—I want to call on Miss Trice. Such a terrible thing for those two men to have attacked her. I feel it’s my duty to give her every support in overcoming her ordeal.”
As they’d all met Miss Trice numerous times since the attack, and been reassured, not just by the lady herself but by her sunny good humor, that her “ordeal” had left no lasting mark, none of them could find anything to say.
With a telling sense of relief, they made their farewells.
“I’ll see you out.” Caro conducted Muriel through the open drawing room doors and on toward the front hall.
After exchanging a brief glance with Michael, Edward followed, hovering just behind, attaining that all-but-invisible state only the best political aides could achieve.
Michael remained on the terrace; within a few minutes, Caro and Edward rejoined him.
Edward was frowning at Caro. “It’s true—she’s jealous of you! You should have heard the questions she put to me before you two joined us.”
Caro smiled reassuringly at Edward. “I know, but you mustn’t take it to heart.” When he continued to look mutinous, she went on, “Just consider—normally Muriel’s the most… I suppose ‘senior’ is the right word—hostess or lady hereabouts. But when I come home, even for a few weeks, I—without exerting myself in the least—take her place. That has to be galling.”
“Particularly,” Michael put in, “for one of Muriel’s disposition. She expects to be at the center of things.”
Caro nodded. “She craves the notice, the position, but you have to admit she works hard for it.”
Edward humphed.
“Anyway,” Caro said, “Muriel might not have wanted tea, but I do.” She glanced at Michael. “I’m ravenous.”
He offered his arm. “Long walks through the countryside tend to have that effect.”
Whether Edward believed them neither knew; they were both too experienced to look to find out.
They found Elizabeth in the parlor, and consumed vast quantities of scones and jam, then Michael, reluctantly, rose to take his leave. Caro met his eyes; he saw her consider inviting him to dine, then decide—to his mind correctly—against it. They’d spent all day so close; they both needed time alone—at least, he did; he suspected she did, too. Perspective was something they both knew the value of.