Despite Caro’s consummate performance, Ferdinand hadn’t given up.
4
The next morning at eleven, Michael set out to ride to Bramshaw House. Atlas, eager over once again being ridden every day, was frisky; Michael let the powerful gelding shake off his fidgets in a light canter along the lane.
He hadn’t made any arrangements to call on the Bramshaw House household. The drive back from Totton yesterday had been subdued; Elizabeth, unnaturally pale, had remained quiet and withdrawn. He and Edward had dropped back, letting the carriage roll ahead, leaving Elizabeth in relative privacy.
They’d parted at the top of Bramshaw lane, yet he’d continued to brood on Caro’s performance. The suspicion that she’d manipulated him, subtly steered him in the direction she’d wished while he’d imagined his direction and hers were the same, had grown, had pricked, prodded, and nagged at him. He’d spent the evening thinking of her, reliving their exchanges.
Normally, in any political or diplomatic sphere he’d have had his guard up, but with Caro it simply hadn’t occurred to him that he might need to guard against her.
Betrayal was too strong a word for what he felt. Irritation, yes, lent an edge by the definite prick to his pride she’d delivered. Given he was now sure quite aside from any manipulation that he definitely did not need or want Elizabeth as his wife, such a response was perhaps a touch irrational, yet it was, quite certainly, how he felt.
Of course, he didn’t know absolutely that Caro had exercised her manipulative wiles on him.
There was, however, one way to find out.
He found Caro, Elizabeth, and Edward in the family parlor. Caro looked up, her surprise at seeing him immediately overlayed by transparent delight. Beaming at him, she rose.
He grasped the hand she offered. “I rode over to tell Geoffrey we’ve unblocked the stream through the wood.”
“Oh, dear—he’s out.”
“So Catten told me—I’ve left a message.” He turned to greet Elizabeth and Edward, then met Caro’s eyes. “I—”
“It’s such a glorious day.” She gestured to the wide windows, to the brilliant sunshine bathing the lawns. She smiled at him, stunningly assured. “You’re right—it’s a perfect morning for a ride. We could visit the Rufus Stone—it’s been years since I last saw it, and Edward never has.”
There was a fractional pause, then Elizabeth suggested, “We could take a picnic.”
Caro nodded eagerly. “Indeed, why not?” Swinging on her heel, she headed for the bellpull.
“I’ll organize the horses while you’re changing your gowns,” Edward offered.
“Thank you.” Caro beamed at him, then looked at Michael. Her expression sobered as if she’d been struck by a sudden thought. “That is, if you’re willing to spend your day gallivanting about the countryside?”
He met her wide earnest eyes, noted again how artlessly open her silvery blue gaze seemed—and how, if one looked deeper, there were layers, refracting, diffracting, in those fascinating eyes. Anyone who took Caro at face value—as a passably pretty woman of no particular power—would be committing a grave error.
He hadn’t intended going for a ride, certainly hadn’t suggested it, yet…he smiled, as charmingly beguiling as she. “Nothing would please me more.” Let her continue to think she was in the saddle, with the reins firmly in her hands.
“Excellent!” She turned as Catten appeared at the door.
She quickly gave orders for a picnic lunch to be packed. Elizabeth slipped upstairs to change her gown; when Caro turned to him, he smiled easily. “Go and change—I’ll help Campbell get the horses. We’ll meet you on the front steps.”
He watched her go, confident and assured, then followed Edward from the parlor.
Upstairs, Caro scrambled into her riding habit, then sighed with relief when Elizabeth, already correctly attired, slipped into her room. “Good—I was about to send Fenella to waylay you. Now remember, it’s important you don’t overplay your hand—don’t try to appear too awkward or obtuse. In fact…”
Frowning, she tugged the tightly fitted bodice of her maroon habit straight. “I really think we’d be better served by you being yourself as far as possible today. Riding and a picnic without any others present is such an easy, informal affair. If you’re truly silly, it’ll appear too strange—there won’t be any camouflage.”
Elizabeth looked confused. “I thought you suggested a ride so I’d have another opportunity to demonstrate my unsuitability? He hasn’t yet changed his mind, has he?”
“I don’t think so.” Caro picked up her gloves and quirt. “I suggested a ride because I didn’t want him asking to take you for a walk in the gardens.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth followed her into the corridor; she lowered her voice. “Is that what he was going to ask?”
“That, or something like it. Why else is he here?” Caro tugged on her gloves. “I’d wager my pearls he was going to ask to speak with either you or me alone, and in neither case would that be a good idea. The last thing we need is to let him engage us in any private discussion.”
She led the way down the stairs.
Michael and Edward were waiting before the front steps, each holding his horse and one other. Josh, the stable lad, was tying the bags in which their picnic had been packed to the saddles. To Caro’s surprise, Michael held the reins of her gray mare, Calista, not those of Elizabeth’s Orion.
The sight made her even more wary; if Michael was intent on speaking with her, rather than seeking further time with Elizabeth…the only points he was likely to discuss with her were Elizabeth’s diplomatic experience, and how she thought Elizabeth would respond to an offer from him.
Hiding her speculation, determined to divert him from progressing along such lines, she went down the steps, an easy smile on her lips.
Michael watched her approach. Leaving Atlas’s reins dangling, he draped those of the gray mare over the pommel as he moved to the mare’s side. He waited, reached for Caro as she neared. Closing his hands about her waist, he gripped, drew her a fraction closer, preparing to lift her to her saddle; her gloved hand came to rest on his arm. She looked up.
Suddenly—unmistakably—desire flared, like heated silk caressing bare skin. Simultaneously, he felt the quiver that rippled through her, that made her breath catch, made her silver eyes, for just one heartbeat, glaze.
She blinked, refocused on his face—let her lips curve as if nothing had happened.
But she still wasn’t breathing.
Eyes locked with hers, he tightened his grip—again felt her control quake.
He lifted her to her saddle, held her stirrup; after an instant’s hesitation—disorientation, he knew—she slid her boot into place. Without looking up, without meeting her eyes, he crossed to Atlas, caught his reins, and swung up to the saddle.
Only then did he manage to fill his lungs.
Elizabeth and Edward were already mounted; chaos momentarily reigned as they all turned their horses toward the gate. He was about to turn to Caro—to meet her gaze, to see—
“Come on! Let’s be off!” With a laugh and a wave, she rode past him.
Laughing in return, Elizabeth and Edward set off in her wake.
For an instant, he hesitated, suppressing an urge to glance back at the steps…but he knew he hadn’t imagined it.
Eyes narrowing, he tapped his heels to Atlas’s flanks, and followed.
Caro. He no longer had the slightest interest in Elizabeth. However, when reaching the main road, Caro slowed and they caught up and proceeded in a group; it was abundantly clear she intended to ignore that unexpected moment.
And his reaction to her.
And even more hers to him.
Caro laughed, smiled, and gave the performance of her life, gaily enjoying the summer day, delighting in the cloudless sky, in the larks that swooped high above, in the tang of cut grass rising from nearby fields basking in the sunshine. Never before had she been so glad of the discipli
ne the years had taught her; she felt rocked to her soul, as if an earthquake had struck—she had to shield herself quickly and absolutely.
As they cantered down the road to Cadnam, then turned south onto the leafy lane that led to the site where William II had been struck down by an arrow while hunting in the forest, her heart gradually slowed to its normal rhythm, the vise about her lungs gradually eased.
She was aware of Michael’s gaze touching her face, not once but many times. Aware that behind his easygoing, amenable, ready-to-enjoy-the-beauties-of-the-day expression, he was puzzled. And not entirely pleased.
That last was good. She wasn’t aux anges over that unlooked-for development either. She wasn’t at all sure what had caused such a potent and unsettling reaction, but instinct warned her that it, and therefore he, was an experience she’d be wise to avoid.
Given that he was interested in Elizabeth, the latter shouldn’t prove at all difficult.
Edward was on her left, Elizabeth on her right; just ahead, the lane narrowed. “Edward.” Checking Calista, she caught Edward’s eye and dropped back. “Did you get a chance to ask the countess about Señor Rodrigues?”
She’d chosen a topic that Michael would have no interest in, yet before Edward could react and drop back to join her, Michael had.
“I take it the countess is an acquaintance of old?”
She glanced at him, then nodded. “I’ve known her for years. She’s a member of the inner court—very influential.”
“You were in Lisbon for what? Ten years?”
“More or less.” Determined to steer matters back on track, she looked ahead and smiled at Elizabeth. “Elizabeth visited us on several occasions.”
Michael’s gaze went to Edward. “Over the last few years?”
“Yes.” Caro saw the direction of his glance; before she could decide if he actually meant anything by his comment—had deduced anything she’d rather he didn’t—he looked at her and captured her gaze.
“I imagine the life of an ambassador’s wife would have been one of constant and giddy dissipation. You must feel quite adrift.”
She bridled, felt her eyes flash. “I assure you the life of an ambassador’s wife is hardly a succession of relaxing entertainments.” She lifted her chin, felt her color, along with her temper, rise. “A constant succession of events, yes, but—” She broke off, then glanced at him.
Why on earth was she reacting to such an unsubtle jibe? Why had he, of all men, made it? She continued rather more circumspectly. “As you must be aware, the organization of an ambassador’s social schedule falls largely to his wife. During the years of our marriage, that was my role.”
“I would have thought Campbell would have handled much of it.”
She felt Edward’s glance, his offer to intervene; she ignored it. “No—Edward was Camden’s aide. He assisted with legal, governmental, and diplomatic details. However, the arena in which most important decisions are actually made, the venues at which such matters are most directly influenced is, as it always has been, in embassy drawing rooms, ballrooms, and salons. In other words, while the ambassador and his aides may execute the battle plan, it’s the ambassador’s wife who secures for them the field on which they may maneuver.”
Looking ahead, she drew a calming breath, reached for her customarily unshakable social poise, surprised that it had temporarially deserted her. There was, after all, an obvious reason for Michael’s probing. “If rumor speaks true and you’re shortly to find yourself at the Foreign Office, you’ll need to remember that without the right wife, an ambassador, no matter how able, will be hamstrung.”
Coolly, she turned her head and met his blue eyes.
His lips curved, but his self-deprecating smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been told the same holds true for government ministers.”
She blinked.
Michael looked forward, the curve of his lips deepening as he saw Elizabeth and Edward had pulled ahead; the lane had narrowed, allowing only two horses abreast. “Everyone knows,” he murmured, voice low so only Caro would hear, “that Camden Sutcliffe was a master ambassador.”
He brought his gaze back to her face. “Doubtless he understood—” He broke off, startled to see some hurt, some fleeting expression so painful it stopped his breath, flash through her silver eyes. What he’d been about to say vanished from his head; he’d been baiting her, wanting to provoke some reaction and learn more…
“Caro?” He reached for her hand. “Are you all right?”
She refocused, abruptly shifted her mount away, avoiding his hand, and looked ahead. “Yes. Perfectly.”
Her voice was cool, distant; he didn’t—couldn’t bring himself to—test her again. Although her tone was even, he sensed it had cost her an effort to achieve it. He felt he should apologize, but wasn’t sure for what. Before he could think of any way to put right whatever had gone wrong, Edward and Elizabeth kicked up their mounts and drew ahead as the lane opened into a wide clearing.
Tapping her heels to her mare’s flanks, Caro went forward to join them; increasingly frustrated, he sent Atlas after her.
The clearing was as wide as a field, dotted here and there with oaks. Close to the middle stood the Rufus Stone, a monument erected by Earl De La Warr some eighty years before to mark the spot where William II, due to his red hair known as Rufus, had fallen on August 2,1100. Although commemorating a pivotal moment in history, the stone, inscribed with the bare facts, stood relatively unadorned or in any way celebrated, surrounded by the deep stillness of the forest.
Edward and Elizabeth had reined in under the spreading branches of an ancient oak. Edward dismounted and tied his reins to a branch. He turned, but before he could go to where Elizabeth waited to be helped from her saddle, Caro rode up; with an imperious gesture—for her, out of character—she summoned Edward to her side.
Without hesitation, Edward went.
Reining Atlas in, Michael dismounted, watched Edward lift Caro to the ground. Securing Atlas’s reins, he went to Elizabeth and lifted her down.
Smiling brightly, Caro pointed to the stone and made some comment to Edward; they set out across the sward toward it. With an easy smile for Elizabeth, Michael fell in beside her as they followed the other two to view the monument.
That moment set the pattern for the following hour. Caro seemed bent on enjoyment; she smiled, laughed, and encouraged them all to do the same. So subtle was her performance—never overdone, totally believable with not so much as a word to jar anyone’s suspicions—Michael had to admit it was instinct alone that insisted it was a performance, all for show.
After admiring the monument and revisiting the tale of how William had been slain by an arrow fired by Walter Tyrrell, one of William’s hunting party, and how that had led to the younger Henry’s seizing the throne over his older brother, Robert, and after exclaiming over how the loosing of a single arrow had resounded through the centuries, they retired to spread a rug and investigate the morsels packed in the saddlebags.
Caro directed them as was her wont. He behaved as she wished, more to placate her, to calm her, than for any other reason. Deploying his own mask, he smiled and charmed Elizabeth, sat by her side—opposite Caro—and talked to her of whatever she wished. Today, Elizabeth didn’t try to convince him she was a featherbrain interested only in balls and dancing, yet although he sensed she was being her genuine self, and was far more attractive without her assumed traits, he was acutely aware she did not possess sufficient depth or complexity in her character to fix his interest, not on any level.
Throughout the interlude, from behind his mask, his attention remained riveted on Caro.
Across the rug, separated from him and Elizabeth by the assembled feast, she and Edward talked easily, exchanging comments with the rapport of old friends. He judged Edward to be about four years Caro’s junior; although he watched closely, he detected not the smallest hint of any loverlike connection. Campbell clearly admired and respected Caro’s abilities; mo
re than any other person, he would have seen the evidence on which to base such an assessment. In Michael’s experience, political and diplomatic aides were the shrewdest and most accurate judges of their masters’ talents.
Edward’s attitude to Caro, and the impression Michael received that he viewed her as a mentor and was happy with, indeed felt grateful for, the opportunity to learn from her, dovetailed with the picture Michael himself was forming of Caro.
That, however, was not what he was waiting to learn, not why he remained so intensely focused on her.
Something he’d said had hurt her, and she’d retreated behind the highly polished persona she showed to the world.
It was, he reminded himself as he searched for cracks and found none, a persona she’d perfected over a decade under the most exacting circumstances. Like a highly polished metal mask, that facade was impenetrable; it gave nothing away.
By the time they packed up the remnants of their feast and shook out the rug, he’d accepted that the only way he would learn more about Caro was if she consented to tell him. Or consented to let him see her as she truly was.
He mentally paused, wondering why learning more about her, the real Caro who hid behind the mask, was suddenly so vitally important. No answer came, yet…
They reached the horses and milled about, retying the saddlebags. Caro was having difficulties; he circled behind her intending to help—her mare shifted, bumping Caro back—into him.
Her back met his chest, her bottom his thighs.
His hands went to her waist, instinctively gripping and steadying her against him. She stiffened; her breath had caught. He released her and stepped back, acutely aware of his own reaction.
“Whoops! Sorry.” She smiled up at him ingenuously but didn’t meet his eyes as, moving to her side, he reached up to take the laces she was struggling to tie.
She drew her hands away too swiftly, but he caught the laces before they unraveled.
“Thank you.”
He kept his gaze on the laces as he tied them. “That should hold it.”
The Ideal Bride Page 7