“And now here I am, eleven years later, considering marrying another politician—and again due to the pressure of political events having to simply accept that all is as perfect, as right as it seems.” She drew in another breath; this time, it shook. “I care for you—a lot. You know I do. But not even for you—not even for what might be—will I commit the same folly again.”
He saw the problem; she confirmed it.
“I won’t allow my decision to be made by default. This time, I have to make it—I have to be sure.”
“What did Harriet say to you?”
She glanced at him. “Only that Canning was retiring—the timing.” She frowned, following his thoughts. “She didn’t pressure me—not her, or anyone else.” Looking out at the garden, she sighed. “It’s not people who’ve been persuading me this time—it’s everything else. All the tangible and not-so-tangible things—the position, the role, the possibilities. I can see that everything fits… but it seemed to fit the last time, too.”
He was feeling his way. Glancing at her face, he judged her calm enough to ask, “You’re not imagining—not about to suggest—I look elsewhere for a wife?”
Her lips set. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, then said, “I should.”
“But you won’t?”
She blew out a breath. Still not looking at him, she quietly stated, “I don’t want you to marry anyone else.”
Relief washed through him. So far, so good—
“But that’s not the point!” Abruptly, she speared her hands through her hair, then whirled from the window. “You have to marry within a few weeks, so I have to make up my mind—and I can’t! Not like this!”
He caught her hand before she could dash away across the room. The instant he touched her, he realized she was more tense than she appeared—her nerves far more taut. “What you mean is not yet.”
Her eyes, limpid silver, locked with his. “What I mean is I can’t promise that within a few weeks I’ll happily agree to be your bride!” She held his gaze, no veil, no shield, nothing to screen the turmoil, close to anguish, in her mind. “I can’t say yes”—she shook her head, almost whispered—“and I don’t want to say no.”
He suddenly saw it, the answer to his most urgent question. What was truly most important to her. The insight was momentarily blinding, then he blinked, refocused. On her. His eyes locked on hers; using his hold on her hand, he drew her closer. “You won’t have to say no.” Before she could argue, he continued, “You won’t have to declare your decision until you’re ready—until you’ve made it.”
Steadily, he drew her nearer; reluctantly, frowning, she came. But—
“I told you at the outset^no pressures, no persuasions. Your decision, and yours alone.” He finally saw the truth, saw it all; drawing breath, he looked into her eyes. “I want you to make that decision— between us, there’s no hourglass with its sand running out.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissed. “It’s important this time—for you, for me, for us—that you make your decision.”
He’d only just comprehended how vital, how essential that was— not just for her but for him as well. It might be his commitment she questioned, but unless she made her decision, actively and not by default, he would never be sure of her commitment either.
“I’ll do anything—give anything—to allow you your choice.” His voice deepened, each word intent. “I want to know you’ve knowingly accepted—that you’ve actively chosen to be my wife, to combine your life with mine.”
She studied his eyes; confusion filled hers. “I don’t understand.”
His lips twisted, ironically self-deprecatory. “I don’t care about the appointment.”
Her eyes flared; she tried to jerk back as if he were joking.
He caught her waist, held her. “No—I know what I’m saying.” He trapped her gaze, felt his jaw set. “I mean it.”
“But…” Eyes wide, she searched his. “You’re a politician… this is a cabinet post…”
“Yes, all right—I do care, but. . .” He hauled in a breath, briefly closed his eyes. He had to explain—and get it right; if he didn’t, she wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t believe. Opening his eyes, he looked into hers. “I’m a politician—it’s in my blood, so yes, success in that field is important to me. But being a politician is only a part of my life, and it’s not the most important part. The other part of my life, the other half of it, is.”
She frowned.
He went on, “The other part—the part that’s most important… think of Devil. His life is spent running a dukedom, but the reason he does so—what gives his life purpose—is the other side of it. Honoria, his family, both immediate and wider. That’s why he does what he does—that’s where the purpose, the raison d’etre of his life springs from.”
Caro blinked, studied his eyes. “And you?” From the tension she sensed rising through him, he wasn’t enjoying the discussion, but was grimly determined to see it to its end.
“The same holds true. I need… you, and a family, to anchor me— to give me a base, a foundation—a sense of personal purpose. I want you as my wife—I want to have children with you, to make a home with you, found a family with you. That’s what I need—and I know it.” His jaw tensed, but he went on, “If passing up this chance at the Foreign Office is the price I have to pay to have you as my wife, I’ll pay gladly. The post doesn’t matter as much to me as you do.”
She searched his eyes; no matter how hard she looked she could see nothing but brutal honesty. “I really mean that much to you?” Not just a surprise, but something beyond her wildest dreams.
He held her gaze, then quietly said, “My career is at the periphery of my life—you are at its center. Without you, all the rest is meaningless.”
The admission hung between them, stark and clear.
She felt compelled to ask, “Your grandfather—your aunt?”
“Strangely enough, I think they’ll understand. Magnus, at least.”
She hesitated, but had to ask, “You really want me that much?”
He clenched his teeth. “I need you that much.” The intensity of the words shook him as much as her.
“I…”—she searched his blue eyes—“don’t know what to say.”
He released her. “You don’t have to say anything yet.” Lifting his hands, he framed her face. Let his thumbs cruise the fine skin of her jaw, then brought his gaze to her eyes. “You just have to believe—and you will.”
He tipped up her face, lowered his head. “However long it takes, I’ll wait until you do.”
The vow resonated between them, shivered through them.
He kissed her.
Whether it was the touch of her hand on the back of his, or that they’d spoken so blatantly of their needs, or whether it was simply him owning to his—to that force that compelled, that beat in his blood, pounded through his veins, surged through his body—whichever or all, they ignited him. Cindered the last of his restraint, left him with undisguised hunger raging through him. A potent, driving, primitive desire to show her beyond doubt, beyond confusion, what she truly meant to him.
How elementally deep his need for her ran.
Caro felt the change in him. She was already adrift on an unchar-tered sea; his words had ripped her from the rock her past had chained her to, and whirled her into the surging waves of the unknown. Onto the flood tide.
The raging currents sucked her down. Dragged her into some dark inferno where he waited for her, ablaze with hunger, with greedy need.
Their tongues tangled, but he was the aggressor, openly, dominantly so. He shifted into her, steering, then pressing her against the wall beyond the window; his hands released her jaw, one reaching further to slide through her hair until his strong fingers wrapped about her nape, holding her steady so he could plunder. So he could feast on the softness of her mouth, so he could brand her with the heat that seemed to pour from him. Then his other hand found her breast, and the flames leapt.