Michael hesitated, then suggested, “Keep it simple.”

When she opened her eyes at him, he elaborated, “More informal than a London ball. Everyone will have had a surfeit through the Season, but in the country in summer there’s no reason you need adhere to full ceremony.”

If she did, he’d have the devil of a time securing some of her attention on the night.

“Hmm… even though we’re talking of the diplomatic corps?” Her brows rose higher. “Perhaps you’re right.”

She paused to consume a forkful of Mrs. Entwhistle’s pastry, then, gaze distant, waved the fork. “What about calling it a Midsummer Revels, rather than a ball?”

He knew a rhetorical question when he heard one; he made no reply.

“There’s a wonderful group of musicians in Lyndhurst who would be perfect. They’re very good with lighter, summery airs and country dances.” Her eyes had lit; she was clearly envisioning the event. “It Would certainly be something different…”

He sipped his wine, then raised the glass to her. “A summer wine to tempt the jaded palate.”

She met his eyes, grinned. “Precisely. Yes—that’s what we’ll do.”

The next half hour went in a discussion of potential problems and how best to deal with them. Knowing the importance of foreseeing such hitches and having plans to deal with them before they arose, Caro had composed her guest list with an eye to highlighting Michael’s need for a hostess who understood matters such as the esoteric wran-glings currently exercising the Russians and their Prussian neighbors.

“So,” she concluded, “can I rely on you to keep an eye on the Prussians and the Russians and make sure they don’t come to blows? I want Edward to keep a more general eye on things, and I’ll be everywhere, of course.”

Michael nodded. “The Polish charge d’affaires will be of some help, I daresay.”

“Really?” She raised her brows. “He’s always struck me as such a mild sort, rather ineffectual.”

Michael’s lips curved; he met her eyes. “Appearances can be deceptive.”

Inwardly, she stilled; outwardly, she opened her eyes wider, then shrugged. “If you’re sure.” Pushing back her chair, she laid aside her napkin. “Now I really must go and make a start on the invitations.”

Michael rose and came to draw back her chair. “I’ll walk you to the stable.”

She picked up the gauzy scarf she’d draped over the chair back; she caught it between her hands, intending to flip it over her hair, but stopped. Instead, as they went down the steps and set off around the house, she kept the scarf in her hands, idly playing with the long band, thus obviating him offering her his arm.

Not that he made any move to do so. Instead, he walked beside her, his strides long and easy… almost lazy.

They walked through the sun-dappled orchard, and she felt her nerves easing once more. Despite that odd panic that while he was close never seemed to be far away, her latest ploy had played out very well. She’d managed, and survived the whole quite creditably. Surely he could see that an innocent, relatively inexperienced young lady like Elizabeth could never cope with the demands of social events the like of which his wife would need to organize.

As Camden’s bride, Caro been plunged into the higher diplomatic circles with even less preparation than Elizabeth had now; she could still remember the paralyzing panic, the stomach-churning fear—she wouldn’t wish that on any young lady, much less her own niece.

Surely, with all the details of the ball and its associated organization laid before him, he’d realize…

She drew in a breath, lifted her chin. “Elizabeth’s out picnicking with the Driscolls and Lord Sommerby.” She flashed a smile Michael’s way. “She hates doing invitations—inscribing the same phrases time after time—but…”

Michael caught the tension in her voice as she continued, searching for ways to draw attention to Elizabeth’s youth and lack of experience without being obvious. That that had been the principal purpose behind her visit, perhaps even behind the ball itself, he didn’t doubt; that she was acting to deflect him from offering for Elizabeth’s hand he no longer questioned. Yet her manipulation itself no longer concerned him—what had moved her to it, her attitudes, her silences, most of all the vulnerability and occasional, fleeting panics he detected behind her glamour of supreme confidence and capability, did.

Elizabeth’s face, and Edward’s, too, flashed across his mind, yet it was the need to spare Caro that had him reaching for her hand.

She was gesturing as she spoke; he trapped her fingers in midair, unsurprised when her words abruptly died.

Halting, she faced him, eyes wide, pupils dilating, breath caught. He met her gaze, trapped her silvery eyes; he was acutely conscious that they were out of sight of the house, screened by the orchard’s trees, all in full leaf. “You don’t need to be so busy on Elizabeth’s behalf.”

Shifting his hold on her hand, enclosing her fingers in his, he stepped closer, realized from the way she blinked, then, a frown forming in her eyes, searched his, that she wasn’t sure of his meaning.

You don’t need to instruct me about Elizabeth anymore.“ His lips lifted wryly. ”You’ve convinced me.“

Caro stared into his blue eyes. She’d never been knocked so far off-balance in her life. He was too close—she was so aware…

How long had he known?

The thought jerked her free of the mesmerizing effect he had on her. She narrowed her eyes, concentrated. Did he mean what she thought he did? “You’ve changed your mind? You won’t be offering for Elizabeth’s hand?”

He smiled. “I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be offering for Eliza-beth’s hand.” He paused, then raised her fingers to his lips, lightly brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Elizabeth is not my ideal bride.”

The touch of his lips sent a tingling sensation skittering down her arm, but that was overwhelmed, then submerged, by the incredible relief that rose up and poured through her.

Only then did she realize she hadn’t been certain of her ability to save Elizabeth, hadn’t until then appreciated how important to her saving Elizabeth from an unhappy political marriage had become.

She smiled freely, totally without restraint, making no attempt to mask her joy. “I’m so glad.” Her smile only grew. “It wouldn’t have worked, you know.”

“I realized that.”

“Good.” She couldn’t stop beaming; if she’d been younger, she would have danced. “I’d better go.” And tell Elizabeth the good news.

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head and released her hand. He waved her on to the stables.

Michael walked beside her, waited with her while Hardacre brought out her gig. Her smile… it was radiant. He felt smugly content that he’d spoken the right words to put it on her face. It was a joy to behold; it warmed him from the inside out. He stood basking in the glow, his hands clasped tightly behind his back to make sure he didn’t reach for her and spoil the moment.

The gig arrived; he helped her to the seat. She’d continued to fill his ears with plans for the ball, yet her words were now transparently free of any overarching intent; they were straightforward expressions of her thoughts—he heard the ring of clarity, and realized he’d taken a significant step closer to Caro herself, a significant step deeper into her confidence.

He waved her off with considerable satisfaction.

Once the gig and she had disappeared around the drive, he set off, still smiling, to walk back to the house.

His words had lifted a burden from Caro’s shoulders; even if he had the moment again, he wouldn’t have scripted it otherwise. Her joy had been fascinating, a true delight, even if it had prevented her from realizing that in shifting his attention from Elizabeth, he’d fixed it on someone else.

Someone a great deal more experienced than Elizabeth.

Smile deepening, he looked up at the house and walked steadily on.

He was actually looking forward to Muriel’s supper tonight.

* * *

“Ah, there you are, Michael!”

Severely handsome in plum silk, Muriel swept forward as he walked into her drawing room.

He shook the hand she offered, then glanced around the room. It was decently filled, largely with ladies although there were some other gentlemen scattered among the skirts.

“Let me introduce you to our new members.” Muriel steered him to a group stationed before the French doors presently open to the rear garden. “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Carlisle. She and her husband have recently come to live in Minstead.”

His politician’s smile to the fore, he shook Mrs. Carlisle’s hand and learned she and her husband had moved to the district from Bradford. He progressed around the group, meeting two others new to the area and renewing his acquaintance with the three other ladies who had known him for years.

Although they did not vote, here as in any district it was the ladies who were most active at all levels of community service, organizing gatherings like the church fete and supporting institutions such as the orphanges and workers’ refuges. Michael viewed their goodwill and support as a key factor in shoring up his personal standing as local Member; only with that secure could he safely devote his mind to the wider challenges the Prime Minister was intent on handing him. Consequently, he did not begrudge the time he spent at evenings like this; indeed, he was happy to grasp the opportunity Muriel had handed him and make the most of it.

He was engaged in doing precisely that when Caro entered the room. Facing the hearth, he was chatting to two gentlemen before the fireplace when instinct prompted him to glance up into the mirror above the mantelpiece.