The Ideal Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  They held still and watched him stride away, back toward the pond.

  Caro tugged at Michael’s sleeve; he looked back in time to see the two strange men disappearing along another path, one that led to the main road.

  Caro opened her mouth—he held up a hand. Waited. Only when he was sure Ferdinand should be far enough away so that he couldn’t hear their voices did he lower his hand and meet Caro’s wide gaze.

  “What on earth was all that about?”

  “Indeed.” Taking her arm, he guided her back to the path.

  “I wondered at first if they could possibly be the men who attacked Miss Trice—although why Ferdinand would be talking to them I can’t imagine—but they were too thin, don’t you think?”

  He nodded. They’d been about the same distance from the men who’d attacked Miss Trice; the pair in the clearing had been too short as well. He said so; Caro agreed.

  They walked briskly for a while, then she said, “Why would Ferdinand, if he wanted to hire some men, meet them in…well, such secrecy? And even more, why here? We’re miles from Leadbetter Hall.”

  The very questions he’d been pondering. “I have no idea.”

  The picnic site came into view. They heard voices—the younger guests had returned from their excursion, and their elders had revived. He paused, then stepped sideways off the path into the relative privacy afforded by a large bush.

  Tugged after him, Caro looked at him in surprise.

  He met her gaze. “I think we can safely conclude that Ferdinand is up to something—possibly something the duke and duchess, at least, might not be aware of or approve of.”

  She nodded. “But what?”

  “Until we know more, we’ll have to keep our eyes open, and be on guard.” He bent his head and kissed her—one last, very last kiss.

  He’d intended it to remind her, to stir her memories back to life for just an instant; unfortunately, her response had the same effect on him, and left him aching.

  Biting back a curse, he lifted his head, met her eyes. “Remember—when it comes to Ferdinand, be on guard.”

  She studied his eyes, his face, then smiled reassuringly and patted his shoulder. “Yes, of course.”

  With that, she turned, stepped back onto the path, and led the way into the clearing. His gaze locking on her swaying hips, he mentally swore, then followed, strolling as nonchalantly as he could in her wake.

  9

  Michael debated whether or not to alert Geoffrey to their suspicions regarding Ferdinand. He spent a restless night, not, admittedly, primarily due to that concern. Then, during breakfast, a note from Geoffrey arrived asking him to dine with the family that evening.

  The invitation was clearly a sign from the gods. He rode to Bramshaw House as the sun sank behind the trees and the day eased into a balmy evening. Aside from all else, when he and Caro had reentered the clearing, Ferdinand had been questioning Edward. He wanted to learn what Leponte’s interest had been; he was sure Caro would have interrogated Edward.

  Reaching Bramshaw House, he rode straight to the stable. Leaving Atlas there, he strode up to the house and found Geoffrey in his study.

  Upstairs, Caro sat before her dressing table and idly poked at her hair. She was gowned and coiffed for dinner, not that this evening called for any great degree of sartorial accomplishment—it would be just the family. Her gown of pale gold silk was an old favorite; she’d donned it because it soothed her. Calmed and reassured her.

  For the last twenty-four hours, she’d been…distracted.

  Michael had surprised her. First by actively wanting to kiss her again and again. Then by wanting rather more. Even further, she was starting to suspect he might want more still, might possibly come to truly desire that.

  Desire was a type of hunger, wasn’t it? The notion that it could be what she sensed in him, welling and growing while they exchanged heated kisses, was too stunning and eye-opening a possibility to ignore.

  Could it be so? Did he truly, absolutely and honestly, want her—desire her—in that way?

  Part of her scoffed, contemptuously deriding the idea as pure fantasy; the more vulnerable part of her desperately wanted it to be true. Being in a position to actively consider that question was a novel development all its own.

  One thing was clear. After their interlude by the pond, she had a decision to face: To go forward or stop, to say yes or no. If he did want more, should she, would she, agree?

  That decision should have been easy enough for a twenty-eight-year-old unremarried relict of a political marriage to a much older man. Unfortunately, in her case, there were complications, definite complications, yet for the first time in her life she wasn’t convinced she should reject the opportunity Michael might lay before her out of hand.

  That uncertainty was unprecedented; it was what had kept her distracted all day.

  Gentlemen had been offering to indulge in affairs with her for the past ten years—virtually since her marriage—yet this was the first time she’d felt even remotely tempted. All those others…she’d never been convinced their desire for her was any more real than Camden’s had been, that they weren’t instead driven by some more worldly motive, like boredom or simply the thrill of the chase, or even by political considerations. Not one of them had so much as truly kissed her, not as Michael had.

  Thinking back…at no point had Michael asked her permission. If she’d understood him correctly, if she didn’t specifically say “no,” he was going to take her silence as “yes.” That approach had worked, for both of them. Despite her reservations, he hadn’t done anything, led her to do anything, she regretted. Quite the opposite. What they had done was driving her to contemplate doing a great deal more.

  How far would he go before he lost interest? She had no idea, yet if he truly wanted her, desired her…didn’t she owe it to herself to find out?

  The sound of the gong reverberated through the house, summoning them to the drawing room. With a last glance at the at-present-relatively-neat corona of her hair, she rose and headed for the door. She’d resume her cogitations later; clearly it would be wise to have a firm idea of how she was going to deal with Michael before he next managed to get her alone.

  Michael heard the gong and abandoned his well-meant but ill-fated attempt to alert Geoffrey to the potential threat emanating from Ferdinand Leponte. His fault, not Geoffrey’s; he hadn’t possessed sufficient hard facts to prod Geoffrey’s less-well-honed instincts into action.

  Although he’d been the local Member for a decade, Geoffrey had never been touched by the darker side of politics. When Michael had described Leponte’s rabid interest in Camden Sutcliffe’s personal life, Geoffrey had raised his brows. “How odd.” He’d sipped his sherry, then added, “Perhaps George should show him around Sutcliffe Hall.”

  After that, he hadn’t bothered mentioning Leponte’s meeting with the two strangers in the forest. Geoffrey would probably suggest they were runners for Southampton bookmakers. Which could be true; he just didn’t think it likely. Leponte was intent on something, but it wasn’t which nag won the Derby.

  Bowing to fate, he’d turned their conversation to a discussion of local affairs, none of which were in any way alarming.

  “There’s the gong.” Geoffrey got to his feet.

  Rising, Michael set down his glass and joined him; together they strolled down the corridor into the front hall and turned into the drawing room.

  Caro, slender in old gold, was before them, as were Edward and Elizabeth. Standing in the middle of the room, Caro was facing the chaise on which Elizabeth sat; hearing their footsteps, she turned.

  Her gaze first found Geoffrey, then moved on to rest on him.

  She blinked, then looked back at Geoffrey. Other than that blink, no sign of surprise showed on her face or in her bearing.

  Geoffrey gave her away. “Ah—my apologies, Caro—slipped my mind. I invited Michael to dinner this evening.”

  She smiled, confident and assured. �
��How delightful.” Gliding forward, she gave him her hand. She glanced at Geoffrey. “Mrs. Judson…?”

  “Oh, I remembered to tell her.”

  Geoffrey ambled across to speak with Edward. Caro narrowed her eyes on his back; her smile took on a subtle edge.

  He lifted her hand to his lips, briefly kissed. Had the satisfaction of seeing her gaze and her attention whip back to him. “I take it you don’t disapprove?”

  Caro looked him in the eye. “Of course not.”

  She would have liked more time to consider her position before they met again; however, that plainly was not to be. She would cope—coping was her specialty.

  They didn’t dally long in the drawing room. A discussion of the preparations for the church fete filled the minutes; they were still arguing the merits of Muriel’s suggestion of an archery contest when they took their places at the dining table.

  The meal passed off well. As always when Caro was in residence, Mrs. Judson outdid herself. Caro sympathized with the woman; during the rest of the year, she had only Geoffrey to cater for, and his tastes were plain beyond belief.

  Tonight, the food was exceptional, the conversation relaxed and pleasant. Michael chatted easily with all of them; for her, and Geoffrey, too, it was easy to treat him as something very close to a family member.

  As inviting Michael had been Geoffrey’s idea, she wasn’t sure what to expect when, all three men denying any wish for port, they all rose and returned to the drawing room together. Geoffrey suggested some music; Elizabeth dutifully went to the pianoforte.

  Caro played, too, yet hung back, knowing Geoffrey liked to hear Elizabeth play and that Edward would, too, so he could stand beside her and turn the sheets…but that left her with Michael. Left her to ensure that he was entertained….

  She glanced at him and found him watching her. With an understanding smile, he offered his arm. “Come—stroll with me. I wanted to ask what Leponte tried to prise out of Edward.”

  The comment served to emphasize how distracted she’d been; she’d forgotten all about Ferdinand’s odd behavior.

  Sliding her hand onto Michael’s arm, letting him steer her toward the far end of the long room, she assembled her facts. Looking down, she spoke softly, below the lilting air Elizabeth had started to play. “He wanted to know all sorts of odd things, but Edward said the crux of it was that Ferdinand wanted to know if Camden had left any personal papers—diaries, letters, personal notes—that sort of thing.”

  “Did he?”

  “Of course.” She glanced at him. “Can you imagine any ambassador of Camden’s caliber not keeping detailed notes?”

  “Indeed—so why did Leponte need to ask?”

  “Edward’s theory is that that was merely a gambit to elicit some reply alluding to where such papers might be.”

  “I take it the gambit failed?”

  “Naturally.” Halting before the French doors to the terrace, currently open to let in the evening breeze, she drew her hand from his arm and faced him. “Edward’s entirely trustworthy—he gave Ferdinand no joy at all.”

  Michael frowned. “What else did Leponte ask? Specifically.”

  She raised her brows, recalled Edward’s sober words. “He asked if it was possible to gain access to Camden’s papers.” She met Michael’s gaze. “To further his studies into Camden’s career, of course.”

  His lips thinned. “Of course.”

  She studied his steady blue eyes. “You don’t believe him, do you?”

  “No. And neither do you.”

  She wrinkled her nose. Turning, she gazed out, unseeing. “Ferdinand knew Camden for years—only now has he shown any interest.”

  After a moment, he asked, “Where are Camden’s papers?”

  “In the London house.”

  “It’s closed up?”

  She nodded and met his eyes. “But they’re not lying around in his study or anywhere easy to find, so…”

  His eyes narrowed, then he glanced back up the room.

  Half turning, she followed his gaze. Geoffrey’s eyes were closed—he looked to be asleep; at the pianoforte, Elizabeth and Edward had eyes only for each other.

  Michael’s fingers closed about her elbow; before she could react, he’d steered her outside.

  “You’re not, by any chance, considering giving Leponte access to those papers?”

  She blinked at him. “No—of course not. Well…” She looked ahead, let him link their arms and stroll with her down the long terrace. “At least not until I know exactly what he’s looking for and, even more importantly, why.”

  Michael glanced at her face, saw the determination behind her words, and was satisfied. She clearly didn’t trust Leponte. “You would have a better idea than most—what could he be after?”

  “I never read Camden’s diaries—I don’t believe anyone has. As for the rest, who knows?” She shrugged, looking down as they descended the steps to the lawn; distracted by his question, she didn’t seem to notice…

  Then again, would Caro truly not notice?

  It was an intriguing question, but not one he felt any need to press her over; if she was willing to go along with his direction, he wasn’t foolish enough to erect hurdles in her path.

  “I’m sure whatever it is, it can’t be anything diplomatically serious.” She glanced at him through the deepening dusk as they headed down the lawn. “The Ministry called Edward in for a debriefing as soon as we arrived back in England, and that was on top of the discussions both Edward and I had with Gillingham, Camden’s successor. We spent our last weeks in Lisbon making sure he knew everything there was to know. If anything had cropped up since, I’m sure he, or the Foreign Office, would have contacted Edward.”

  He nodded. “It’s hard to see what it might be, given Camden’s been buried for two years.”

  “Indeed.”

  The word was somewhat vague. He looked at her, and realized she’d guessed where he was taking her.

  She was looking at the summerhouse, at the dark expanse of lake beyond it rippling and lapping, ruffled by the rising breeze. Clouds were racing, overrunning each other as they streaked and tumbled across the evening sky, breaking up the lingering light. They would have a storm before dawn; it was still some distance away, yet the sense of its rising, of the air quivering at its approach, a primal warning of elemental instability rushing their way, was pervasive.

  Heightening anticipation, tightening nerves.

  Making senses stretch.

  The summerhouse rose before them, blocking out the lake. “Do you think Camden’s papers are safe where they are?”

  “Yes.” She looked down as they reached the summerhouse steps. “They’re safe.”

  She reached down to lift her skirts. He released her elbow and started up the steps.

  Immediately realized she hadn’t; she’d remained on the lawn.

  He swiveled on the step and looked down at her—at her pale face, her shadowed eyes; she was looking up at him, hesitating.

  He caught her gaze, held it, then extended his hand. “Come with me, Caro.”

  Through the dusk, her eyes remained locked on his; for an instant, she didn’t move—then she made up her mind. Transferring her hold on her skirt to one hand, she placed her fingers in his.

  Let him close his hand about them and lead her up into the soft dimness of the summerhouse.

  It took only seconds for their eyes to adjust; the last glimmer of light in the sky was reflected off the lake into the section of the summerhouse built out over the water. They moved into that gray half-light. She twitched her fingers and he let them go, content to prowl in her wake as she glided to one of the arched openings where a wide padded bench filled the gap, a tempting place to sit and look out over the lake.

  He had no eyes for the lake, only her.

  He halted a few feet away; Caro drew in a deep breath and faced him. She was aware of the onrushing storm, of the dance of charged air over her bare arms, of the breeze plucking at ten
drils of her hair. Through the twilight, she studied his face—briefly wondered why, with him, it was all so different. Why, when they were alone, here, by the pond—she suspected anywhere—it was as if they’d stepped onto a different plane, one where things were possible, acceptable, even right, that weren’t so in the normal world.

  Regardless, they were here.

  She stepped forward. Closing the distance between them, lifting her hands to slide them over his shoulders to his nape, she cupped his head, drew it down, stretched up and kissed him.

  Felt his lips curve beneath hers.

  Then they firmed, took control, parted hers. His tongue filled her mouth, his arms closed around her, and she had never been more certain that she was where she wanted, even needed, to be.

  Their mouths merged, both eager to take, and then give. To participate fully in what they already knew they could share. Heat bloomed—in them, between them; the exchange quickly grew more demanding, more ravenous, more fiery.

  His hunger was there, real, unfeigned, increasingly potent, increasingly undisguised. How strong was it? How lasting? Those were her burning questions—there was only one way to learn the answers.

  She met him, taunted in response to his teasing, challenged and dueled. Then she stepped closer, fought to suppress her reactive shiver as their bodies met. Nearly fainted with relief—a delicious giddy faintness—at his reaction. Instantaneous, hot, greedy—almost violent.

  Powerful.

  His arms tightened, locking her to him, then his hand moved on her back, urging her closer still, then sliding, gliding lower, over the indentation of her waist, lower, over her hips to the swell of her bottom. To trace lightly, then cup, edging her closer, drawing her into his body so she could feel—

  For one finite moment, all her senses stilled; for one instant, her mind refused to accept the reality, flatly refused to believe…

  He shifted against her, deliberately, evocatively, seductively thrusting. The solid ridge of his erection rode against her belly, the soft silk of her old gown the flimsiest of barriers, in no way muting the effect.