The Ideal Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  He paused, then went on, “That situation was known to have been the case more or less since their marriage—at least from the time Caro took up residence in Lisbon.” Again he paused, then more reluctantly went on, “The suspicion—and it was never voiced as more than that—was that their marriage might never have been consummated.”

  Michael felt Edward’s quick glance, but kept his gaze on the lawn.

  After a moment, Edward continued, “Be that as it may, Camden had a mistress throughout the years of his marriage to Caro—just one, a long-term relationship that had existed prior to their wedding. I was told Camden returned to the woman within a month or so of his marriage to Caro.”

  Despite his training, Edward hadn’t been able to keep deep disapproval from coloring his words. Frowning as he digested them, Michael eventually asked, “Did Caro know?”

  Edward snorted, but there was sadness in the sound. “I’m sure of it. Something like that…she’d never have missed it. Not that she ever let on, not by word or deed.”

  A moment passed; Edward shifted, glanced at Michael, then looked away. “As far as I or any of my predecessors knew, Caro never took a lover.”

  Until now. Michael wasn’t about to confirm or deny anything. He let the silence stretch, then looked at Edward. Met his gaze and nodded. “Thank you. That was, in part, what I needed to know.”

  It explained some things, but raised new questions, ones whose answers it seemed only Caro would know.

  They turned back into the drawing room. “You will send for me,” Edward said, “if there’s any trouble in London?”

  Michael considered Elizabeth, still engrossed in a concerto. “If you can better serve Caro there than here, I’ll let you know.”

  Edward sighed. “You probably know this, but I’ll warn you anyway. Keep a close eye on Caro. She’s totally reliable in many respects, but she doesn’t always recognize danger.”

  Michael met Edward’s gaze, then nodded. Elizabeth sounded the last, triumphal chords; smoothly donning his politician’s smile, he crossed to bid her farewell.

  They rolled into London in the late afternoon. It was humid; warmth rising from the paved streets, the westering sun reflected from windows, its heat from high stone walls. In late July, the capital was half deserted, many spending the warmer weeks in their country house or farmhouse. The park, host to only a few riders and the occasional carriage, lay like an oasis of green in the surrounding desert of gray and brown stone, yet as the carriage turned into Mayfair, Michael was conscious of a quickening of his pulse—a recognition that they were reentering the political forum, the place where decisions were formulated, influenced, and made.

  Politics, as he’d told Caro, ran in his blood.

  Beside him, she shifted, straightening, glancing out of the window; with a flash of insight, he realized she, too, reacted to the capital—the seat of government—with a similiar focusing of her attention, a more keenly anticipatory air.

  She turned to him. Met his gaze and smiled. “Where should I set you down?”

  He held her gaze, then asked, “Where were you planning on staying?”

  “At Angela’s in Bedford Square.”

  “Is Angela in residence?”

  Caro continued to smile. “No—but there’ll be staff there.”

  “A skeleton staff?”

  “Well, yes—it is the height of summer.”

  He looked forward, then said, “I think it would be infinitely wiser for us—both of us—to stay with my grandfather in Upper Grosvenor Street.”

  “But—” Caro glanced out as the carriage slowed. She glimpsed a street sign; the carriage was turning into Upper Grosvenor Street. The notion of having been an unwitting accomplice in her own kidnapping assailed her. She looked at Michael. “We cannot simply descend on your grandfather.”

  “Of course not.” He sat forward. “I sent a messenger this morning.”

  The carriage slowed, then halted. He met her eyes. “I live here while in town, and Magnus rarely leaves—the house is fully staffed. Believe me when I say that both Magnus and his staff will be delighted to have us—both of us—stay.”

  She frowned. “It’s stretching the proprieties for me to reside under your grandfather’s roof while only you and he are in residence.”

  “I omitted to mention Evelyn, my grandfather’s cousin. She lives with him and runs the house. She’s seventy if she’s a day, but then”—he met her gaze—“you’re a widow—I’m sure the proprieties will remain unruffled.” His voice gained in decisiveness. “Quite aside from all else, there’s not a gossipmonger in town would dare suggest anything scandalous took place under Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby’s roof.”

  That last was unarguable.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You had this in mind all along.”

  He smiled and reached for the carriage door.

  She wasn’t convinced it was a good idea, but unable to think of any solid grounds on which to resist, she allowed him to hand her down, then conduct her up the steps.

  A very large butler opened the door, his expression benevolent. “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Hammer.” Michael handed her over the threshold. “This is Mrs. Sutcliffe. We’ll be staying for the next week or so while we attend to a number of matters.”

  “Mrs. Sutcliffe.” Hammer bowed low; his voice was as deep as he was large. “If there’s anything you require, you have only to ring. It will be our pleasure to serve you.”

  Caro smiled charmingly; regardless of her reservations, she wouldn’t allow them to show. “Thank you, Hammer.” She waved at the carriage. “I’m afraid I’ve saddled you with rather a lot of luggage.”

  “It’s of no moment, ma’am—we’ll have it up in your room in no time.” Hammer glanced at Michael. “Mrs. Logan thought the Green Room would be suitable.”

  Mentally locating that room in the huge house, Michael nodded. “An excellent choice. I’m sure Mrs. Sutcliffe will be comfortable there.”

  “Indeed.” Caro caught his eye, tried to see past his mask to what was going on in his head—and failed. She turned to Hammer. “My maid’s name is Fenella—she’s fluent in English. If you could show her my room, I’ll be up shortly to bathe and change for dinner.”

  Hammer bowed. Inclining her head gracefully, Caro turned to Michael and slid her hand onto his arm. “Now you had better present me to your grandfather.”

  Michael led her toward the library, his grandfather’s sanctum. “You have met him, haven’t you?”

  “Years ago—I’m not sure he’d remember. It was at some Foreign Office function.”

  “He’ll remember.” Michael felt sure of that.

  “Ah—Mrs. Sutcliffe!” Magnus boomed the instant Caro entered. “Do forgive me for not rising—demmed gout, y’know. It’s a trial.” Seated in a huge wing chair angled before the empty hearth, his swaddled foot propped on a stool, Magnus fixed her with a sharp, shrewd blue gaze as she walked across the room to greet him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again, m’dear.”

  He held out a hand; determinedly serene and unshakable, she placed her fingers in it and curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to renew our acquaintance, sir.”

  Magnus glanced at Michael, his gaze, shaded by thick overhanging brows, penetrating. Meeting that searching glance, Michael merely smiled.

  Clasping her hand, Magnus patted it lightly. “My grandson tells me we’re to have the pleasure of your company for a week or so.”

  Releasing her, he sat back in his chair, his attention fixing on her.

  She inclined her head. “If you’re so disposed, of course.”

  A fleeting smile touched Magnus’s lips. “My dear, I’m an ancient, and only too thrilled to have my declining years enlivened by the presence of wit and beauty.”

  She had to smile. “In that case”—sweeping her skirts about her, she sat on the chaise—“I’ll be delighted to accept and enjoy your hospitality.”

  Magnus studied her,
taking in her self-confidence, her calm, unruffled serenity, then he grinned. “Right then, now we’ve got the social niceties out of the way, what’s this all about, heh?”

  He glanced at Michael. Pointedly, Michael looked at her.

  Understanding that he was leaving the decision to include Magnus entirely to her, she realized with faint astonishment that since they’d resolved to come to London, she hadn’t had time to dwell on their reasons.

  Refocusing on Magnus, considering his vast experience, she met his gaze. “Someone, it seems, is not well disposed toward my continuing existence.”

  Magnus’s brows lowered; after a moment he barked, “Why?”

  “That,” she informed him, pulling off her gloves, “is what we’ve come to London to discover.”

  Between them, she and Michael explained; it was reassuring to find Magnus reacting much as they had. His experience of their world was profound; if he thought as they did, they were most likely correct.

  Later that night, when Fenella had finally left her, Caro stood before the window in the elegant bedchamber decorated in shades of green, and looked out as the night wrapped London in its sultry arms. So different from the country, yet she was equally at home here, the constant if dim sounds of nighttime activity as familiar as the deep stillness of the countryside.

  After speaking with Magnus, she’d retired to bathe and refresh herself, then they’d dined in semiformal state. Later, in the drawing room, with Magnus nodding in acquiescence, she and Michael had made plans to retrieve Camden’s papers and her copy of Camden’s will from Half Moon Street; she’d agreed that the mansion in Upper Grosvenor Street, under the constant eye of Magnus’s considerable staff and with the old gentleman himself almost always present, would be a safer repository than the uninhabited Half Moon Street residence.

  Their way forward on that matter was clear; she felt no qualms, no hesitations about their approach to unmasking and metaphorically spiking the guns of whoever now wished her harm.

  On that score, she felt assured.

  However, on the subject of what was developing between her and Michael, she was far less confident. She’d set out for the cottage intending to reach some conclusion; fate had intervened, setting in train a succession of events that subsequently had dominated her time.

  Now, however, when at last she could return to consider that subject, it was only to realize she was no further along; Michael’s continuing desire for her—all that she was discovering flowed from it, both from him and from her, such as his unexpected appearance by such a fanciful route in her bedchamber last night—was still so new to her, so enthralling, she couldn’t yet see past it.

  Couldn’t see where it was leading her. Or him.

  The house had fallen silent; she heard his muffled footfall an instant before the doorknob turned, and he entered.

  She turned to watch him cross the room to her; she let her lips curve, but kept most of her smile within. She’d wondered if he would come—had donned another of her diaphanous nightgowns just in case.

  He’d undressed; he appeared to be wearing nothing more than a long silk robe, loosely belted. As he walked unhurriedly to her, his gaze perused her form, absorbing the effect of the all-but-transparent gauze sheath rendered barely acceptable by three cleverly positioned appliqued roses—two buds, one full bloom.

  Reaching her, he halted, lifted his gaze to her eyes. “You do realize, don’t you, that such gowns on you deprive me of all ability to think?”

  Her smile deepened, a sultry chuckle escaped her. He reached for her and she went into his arms, lifting her own to drape them about his neck. For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes on hers. The heat in his gaze assured her his comment was close to the literal truth. Then he lowered his head, his arms tightened—

  Pressing a hand to his chest, she stayed him.

  He stopped, met her gaze. Locking her eyes with his, she sent her hand skating down, found and tugged the tie at his hips free, slipped her hand between the edges of his robe, and found him.

  Hard, hot, fully engorged, aroused with desire for her.

  She still found it amazing, felt her lungs contract, her heart soar. Wanted to share her joy, her pleasure. Closing her hand, she squeezed, then stroked, watched his eyes blank, then close, his features ease of all expression, then tighten with surging desire.

  With her other hand, she slid the silk gown from his shoulders, thrilled to the shush as it fell away. She pressed closer, placed a kiss at the center of his chest, then, one hand still wrapped around his rigid erection, used her other spread on his body to steady herself as she slid slowly down, her lips tracing down, until she was on her knees.

  Boldly, she put out her tongue, with the tip delicately traced the broad head, then, urged on by the shudder that racked him, she parted her lips, and gently, smoothly, took him into her mouth.

  His fingers slid through her hair, clenched as she lightly sucked, licked, then experimented. Fingers sinking into his buttocks, she held him tight as, tracking his response, his reactions—his tensing fingers, his increasingly ragged breaths—she learned how to minister to him.

  Learned how to tighten his nerves as he had so often tightened hers—on, and on…

  Abruptly, he hauled in a huge breath, closed his hands about her shoulders, and urged her up. “Enough.”

  The word was tortured; she obeyed, releasing him, leaning both hands on him, tracing them both upward as she allowed him to draw her upright.

  His eyes, when they met hers, burned. “Take off the gown.”

  Holding his gaze, she lifted her hands to her shoulders, snapped open the clasps.

  The instant the gauze hit the floor, he dragged her to him, kissed her ravenously—poured heat and fire down her veins until she was burning, too—then he lifted her.

  She wrapped her arms about his neck, locked her legs about his hips, gasped, head falling back as she felt him nudge into her. Then he drew her down, slowly, steadily impaling her inch by inexorable inch, until he was fully seated within her, high and hard and oh so real.

  Then he moved her upon him; she looked down, met his eyes, let him capture hers, draw her into the dance until she merged fully with him, one in thought, in deed, in desire. At some point, their lips found each other’s again, and they left the world, stepped into another.

  One where nothing mattered beyond this simple communion, this melding of bodies, of minds, of passions.

  She gave herself up to it, knew he did the same.

  Together, they soared and touched the sun, fused, melted, then, inevitably, returned to earth.

  Later, wrapped in his arms, collapsed on her bed, she murmured, “This is probably scandalous—it’s your grandfather’s house.”

  “His, not mine.”

  The words reached her as a rumble, vibrating through his chest on which she’d pillowed her cheek. “Is this why you wanted me to stay here?”

  “One of the reasons.” She felt his fingers toy with her hair, then they stroked and cupped her nape. “I have this trouble with insomnia I knew you could cure.”

  With a gurgle of laughter, weak but content, she settled her head.

  Closing his eyes, Michael smiled and, equally content, surrendered to slumber.

  17

  Caro slid her key into the lock on the front door of the town house in Half Moon Street. “Our old housekeeper, Mrs. Simms, comes in twice a week to air and dust so all will be ready should I wish to return.”

  Michael followed her into an airy hall tiled with black, white, and ochre mosaics, flecks of gold glinting in the veined marble. In returning to town, Caro hadn’t elected to come here; apparently she hadn’t considered it. Closing the front door, he glanced around as she paused in an archway he assumed led to the drawing room. The double doors were open; she cast a comprehensive glance within, then moved on to the next door, opened it, and looked in.

  Noting the quality of the oak wainscoting, the side tables, and the huge mirror gracing the hall, h
e stolled up and looked over Caro’s head, and felt his eyes widen. The room was the dining room; it contained a long mahogany table with the most wonderful glowing sheen, and a set of chairs even his less than expert knowledge labeled as antiques—French; he couldn’t guess the period, yet their value was obvious.

  He followed as Caro flitted from room to room; every item he saw was museum-quality, even the ornaments and fittings. Yet the house was neither cluttered nor cold and off-putting. It was as if it had been created with incredible love, care, and a superb eye for beauty, and then, for some reason, barely used.

  As he climbed the sweeping staircase behind Caro, he realized Edward had been right; the house and its contents were highly valuable— something someone could conceivably kill for. He caught up with Caro at the top of the stairs. “The will first.”

  She glanced at him, then led the way down a corridor.

  The room she turned into had clearly been Camden’s study. While she went to the wall behind the desk, swung aside a painting—one that looked suspiciously like an old master—to reveal a large wall safe, and set about carefully unlocking it, he lounged in the doorway and looked around. Tried to imagine Camden here. With Caro.

  Less overtly masculine than most studies were, the room testified to a sense of balance and taste; as in the other rooms, all the furniture was antique, the fabrics sumptuous. He examined, considered, conscious once again of not being able to get a clear picture of the relationship between Camden and Caro.

  He’d seen them together on a number of occasions, diplomatic soirées, dinners, and the like. He’d never suspected that their marriage had been nothing more than a facade. He now knew it had been, yet here in the house Caro had told him Camden had created over the years of their marriage, essentially for her…

  A folded parchment in her hand, she shut the safe, locked it, and swung the painting back into place; watching her cross the room, Michael inwardly shook his head. Camden may have created the house, but it was Caro’s—it suited her to the ground, the perfect showcase for her and her manifold talents.