Arriving in Upper Grosvenor Street, they climbed the stairs. Magnus had left the Osterleys’ an hour before them; upstairs, all was quiet. With a light touch on her hand, Michael parted from her at her door and continued on to his room to undress.

Caro entered her bedchamber; Fenella jumped up from the chair on which she’d been dozing and came to help her disrobe. For the first time since coming to Upper Grosvenor Street, Caro clung to the moments, let them spin out; Michael wouldn’t come to her until he heard Fenella pass his room on her way to the servants’ stair.

Carol had so much to think about; everything seemed to have rushed on her at once, yet she knew in reality that wasn’t so. She’d been reassessing for days, even weeks—ever since Michael had so definitively left the decision about whether they should wed to her. Not resigning his goal, but acknowledging her right to choose her own life. He’d deliberately placed the reins of their relationship in her hand and closed her fingers about them.

What she hadn’t until the last hour fully appreciated was that, with complete understanding and certainly thus far unshakable resolve, he’d handed her the reins to his career, too.

Clad in a diaphanous nightgown covered by a silk robe barely opaque enough for decency, she went to stand before the uncurtained window, staring out over the rear garden while Fenella tidied.

Deliberately, she looked into the future—considered whether she should simply acquiesce and let the flood tide sweep her on. Imagined, weighed, recalled all Therese Osbaldestone had said, all she’d seen and comprehended that evening, before sighing and rejecting that course. Her resistance was too deep, the scars too deeply scored, to pursue that path—not again.

It had been so very wrong the last time.

Yet she was no longer set against marriage, not to Michael. If they had time—enough for her to be sure that what bound them was what she thought it was, that that indefinable something was as strong and, most importantly, as enduring as she thought it might be—then yes, she could see herself happily becoming his wife.

There was no other impediment—Just her and the lessons fate had taught her.

Just her memories, and their ineradicable effect.

She could not, again, agree to a marriage by default. She could not allow herself to be swept into it with nothing more than hope as a guarantee. The first time she’d gaily jumped in and let the tide carry her away; it had landed her on a shore she had no wish to visit again.

Not that her life with Camden had been hard; she’d never lacked for material wealth. Yet she had been so alone. Her marriage had been an empty shell, just like the house in Half Moon Street. That was why she continually put off returning to it—because no matter how beautiful it was, how crammed with expensive objects, there was simply nothing there.

Nothing of importance. Nothing on which to build a life.

She barely noticed Fenella bobbing a curtsy; she dismissed the maid with an absentminded wave.

She didn’t yet know if she could believe and go forward. If the love—and yes, she thought it was love—that had grown between her and Michael would endure, would live and grow and be strong enough to be the cornerstone of her future, rather than dissipating like mist within a month, as with Camden.

And this time, the risk was far greater. The young girl’s infatuation she’d felt for Camden, while it might have grown to more with time, was nothing, a mere cipher against what now, at twenty-eight, she felt for Michael. The comparison was laughable.

If she let the tide take her this time, and the vessel of their love foundered, the wreck would devastate her. Would scar her far more deeply than Camden’s turning from her within days of their marriage had done.

The latch of her door clicked. Turning, through the shadows she watched Michael enter and shut the door. Watched him stroll easily, confidently, toward her.

There was only one thing to do.

She straightened her spine, lifted her head. Fixed her gaze on his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

Michael slowed. A single candle burned by the bed, too far away to illuminate her eyes, yet her stance warned him; she didn’t expect him to like what she wished to say. Halting before her, he searched her face—could read nothing beyond implacable resolve. He arched a brow. “About what?”

“Us.” Her gaze on his eyes, she drew a deep breath—hesitated. Then spoke, her tone ruthlessly even. “When we first became close, you told me that whether or not we married was entirely my decision. I accept you meant that sincerely. I knew you’d been urged to marry to enable your appointment to the ministry—I assumed that meant, as it usually would, an announcement of an engagement by October or so.”

Drawing a tight breath, wrapping her arms about her, she looked down. “Tonight, I heard that Canning’s resignation is imminent, making his replacement urgent.” She looked up at him. “You now need to marry by mid-September at the latest.”

He held her gaze for a finite moment, then replied, “I didn’t know that until tonight, either.”

To his relief, she inclined her head. “Yes, well… regardless, we now have a problem.” Before he could ask what, she drew in a huge breath, turned to the window, and said, “I don’t know if I can.”

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. An iron hand clutched his gut… yet it seemed she hadn’t ruled out an engagement by October… The cold tension dissolved; hope flared, but… he wasn’t sure what was going on.

Shifting, he leaned against the window frame so he could better see her face limned by the faint moonlight flowing through the window.

She was tense, yes, but not overwrought. A frown tangled her brows, her lips were compressed; she seemed to be wrestling with some insurmountable problem. The insight gave him pause. Evenly, unaggres-sively, he asked, “Why not?”

She glanced briefly at him, then looked forward. After a moment, she said, “I told you Camden”—she gestured—“swept me off my feet. Yet even then, I wasn’t a complete ninny—I did have reservations. I wanted more time to be certain of my feelings and his, but he had to marry in less than two months and return to his post. I allowed myself to be persuaded—I allowed myself to be swept away.

“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.”