The Ideal Bride c-12

by Stephanie Laurens

  Returning from helping Magnus back to the library, Michael found her there. Paused to take in her slender figure, erect, head high, her absorbed yet focused expression, before strolling to join her. “Are you heading back to the diaries, then?”

  She glanced at him, smiled. “No—if we’re to plunge back into the whirl, I need new gloves and more stockings. I think I’ll go to Bond Street.” Fleetingly, she pulled a face. “I’ve had enough of Camden’s writings for one day.”

  He could detect no sadness in her, yet would he? Would she let such a reaction show? He had no idea what manner of revelations Camden might have set down in his diaries.

  “I’ll come with you.” The words, and his intention, were instinctive; he hadn’t needed to—didn’t need to—think.

  She blinked at him. “You want to go to Bond Street?”

  “No. But if that’s where you’re heading, then that’s where I’ll go.”

  For what seemed like a full minute, she looked into his eyes, then a faint smile curved her lips; she turned to the stairs. “We may as well go now, but I’ll have to change.”

  He stifled a sigh. “I’ll wait in the library.”

  He was reading a treatise on the recent history of Portugal when she opened the library door and looked in. He rose; Magnus glanced up from his own researches, on much the same topic, grunted, and waved them off.

  Joining Caro in the corridor, he ran an appreciative eye over the creation she’d selected, a gown in spotted voile of a delicate ice-blue. The vision of ice on a hot summer’s day flashed into his mind; his mouth watered. With a smile, she led the way back to the hall and the front door, transparently oblivious of the effect the sight of her swaying hips, clothed in such fantasy, was having on him.

  When she paused by the door Hammer was holding open and, haloed by the sunshine outside, looked back at him, waiting, expectant, he hesitated—for one second toyed with the notion of inveigling her back upstairs… realized she wouldn’t immediately understand, that despite all they’d thus far shared, she didn’t yet truly comprehend the depth of his desire for her. She wouldn’t necessarily react accordingly, not immediately.

  Dragging in a breath, forcing his features to relax into an expression of indulgent ease, he reached for her arm./‘The carriage should be waiting.“

  It was; he handed her up, then sat beside her as they rattled through the streets. Bond Street wasn’t far; soon they were strolling arm in arm past the fashionable shops. Caro entered only two establishments—one for gloves, one for stockings. He waited on the pavement in both instances, giving mute thanks that she wasn’t one of those females who had to look through every shop she passed.

  The street was far less crowded than during the Season. It was pleasant enough to walk along, nodding to this lady and that. The bulk of society was absent, cavorting in the countryside; those of the haut ton presently in town were there because they needed to be—because they were involved in one or other arm of government, or were essential players in some similar sphere.

  Caro drew eyes, both male and female. She had a style that was elegant and exclusive—exclusively hers. Today the attention she attracted often resulted in recognition; many of the ladies currently in Bond Street were the more senior hostesses who regarded her as one of their own.

  Parting from Lady Holland, the hostess of note they’d encountered, he arched a brow as Caro reclaimed his arm. “Just gloves and stockings?”

  She smiled. “It was an obvious opportunity. If we’re to rejoin the pack, then these ladies are the first who need to know.”

  “Speaking of obvious opportunities, I forgot to mention”—glancing down, he caught her eyes as she looked up inquiringly—“Honoria asked that I bring you to tea today. I gathered it was to be private—I think, entertainingwise, she’s lying low at present.”

  Caro’s face lit. “I haven’t seen her—not to talk to—in years. Not since your parents died. I only glimpsed her a few times this last Season in the ballrooms—we never had a chance to really talk.” She met his eyes. “What’s the time?”

  He pulled out his watch, consulted it; she peeked. Slipping it back into his pocket, he looked around. “If we stroll to the corner, then return to the carriage, we can go straight there—our timing will be perfect.”

  “Excellent.” Settling her hand on his arm, she stepped out. “Let’s see who else we meet.”

  Two more hostesses, then, to their surprise, Muriel Hedderwick appeared in their path.

  “Caro.” She directed a nod Caro’s way, then looked at Michael.

  He reached for her hand and bowed over it. Muriel returned his polite greeting, then turned to Caro.

  “Have you come up for a meeting?” Caro knew Muriel rarely came to town for anything else.

  “Indeed,” Muriel replied. “The Older Orphans’ Temperance Society. The inaugural meeting was yesterday. Our aim, of course…” She launched into an impassioned description of the society’s predictable aims.

  Michael shifted; Caro pinched his arm. There was no point interrupting; Muriel would say what she would say. Any attempt to distract her would only prolong the exercise.

  Muriel’s eloquence finally ended. She fixed her gaze intently on Caro. “We’re holding a steering committee meeting tonight. As you’re now residing in England, I should think it’s the sort of association to which you would wish to devote some of your time. I would most strongly urge you to attend—the meeting will be held at eight o’clock.”

  Caro smiled. “Thank you for the invitation—I’ll make every effort to attend.” From experience she knew this was a case in which a simple prevarication worked to everyone’s advantage. If she demurred and said she was already committed elsewhere, Muriel would feel compelled to argue her case until Caro broke down and agreed to attend. She made a mental note to make her excuses when next they met.

  She felt Michael’s gaze, pressed his arm to keep him silent. Smiled at Muriel.

  Who nodded, as haughty as ever. “We’re meeting at Number Four, Alder Street, just past Aldgate.”

  Michael inwardly frowned; he glanced at Caro—she wouldn’t know London all that well, not beyond the fashionable areas.

  She confirmed that by smiling and inclining her head. “I’ll hope to meet you and the rest of your committee there.”

  “Good.” With another firm nod and a regal glance his way, Muriel made her good-byes.

  He suppressed an impulse to tell her that if she was going to Aldgate, she should take a footman—a burly one—with her; Muriel would consider the comment unforgivably presumptuous.

  He waited until she was out of earshot to murmur, “You’re not attending any meeting near Aldgate.”

  “Of course not.” Caro retook his arm; they strolled on. “I’m sure the steering committee is full of eager and interested members—they’ll manage perfectly well without me. But Muriel’s obsessed with her societies and associations—she doesn’t seem to appreciate that others aren’t as interested, at least not to the same extent as she.” She smiled up at him. “But each to her own.”

  He met her gaze. “In that case, let’s go to tea.”

  Much more frivolous than a temperance society meeting—also much more relaxing.

  They sat not in the formal drawing room but in a beautiful sitting room that gave onto the back terrace of the mansion in Grosvenor Square, drank tea, consumed cakes and scones, and caught up with the past.

  Within seconds of taking Honoria’s hands and being pulled into a warm embrace, Caro felt as if the years had, if not fallen from them, then been bridged. Honoria was three years older than she; throughout childhood they’d been firm friends. But then Honoria and Michael’s parents had been killed in a tragic accident; the event had parted Caro and Honoria, not only physically.

  They had been—still were, Caro suspected—alike in many ways; if Honoria had been and still was the more assertive, she was the more assured, the more confident in herself.

  She had remained
in Hampshire, the much-loved youngest daughter of the happy household at Bramshaw House—until she’d been swept off her feet into her marriage with Camden. While Honoria had been very much alone, she, catapulted into the highest echelons of society, had been wrestling with hostessly demands that had initially been well beyond her years. She had coped; so had Honoria.

  While Honoria glossed over the years she’d spent with distant relatives in the shires, virtually alone in the world but for Michael, Caro was quite sure those years had left their mark, as the accident itself must have done. Now, however, there was not the faintest vestige of cloud to be found in Honoria’s eyes; her life was full, rich, and transparently satisfying.

  She had married Devil Cynster.

  Over the rim of her cup, Caro glanced at the lounging presence talking with Michael; they had taken chairs opposite the chaise where she and Honoria sat. It was the first time she had seen Devil beyond a glimpse.

  Within the ton, the name Cynster was synonymous with a certain type of gentleman, with a certain type of wife. And while Honoria certainly fitted the mold of a Cynster wife, Devil Cynster, from all she could see and all she had heard, was the epitome of the Cynster male.

  He was large, lean, harsh featured. There was very little softness about him; even his eyes, large, heavy lidded, a curious shade of pale green, seemed crystalline, his glance hard and sharp. Yet Caro noted that every time his eyes rested on Honoria, they softened; even the austere lines of his face, of his lean lips, seemed to ease.

  Power was his—he’d been born to it, not just physically but in every imaginable way. And he used it; that Caro knew beyond doubt. Yet talking to Honoria, sensing the deep, almost startlingly vibrant connection carried in shared glances, in the light touch of a hand, she sensed—could almost feel—that another power ruled here. That just as Honoria seemed to have surrendered to it, so, too, had Devil.

  And they were happy. Deeply, powerfully content.

  Caro set down her cup, reached for another scone, and asked Honoria who else was in town; Honoria had confirmed that Michael had explained the real reason for their presence in the capital. “In order to learn whatever we can, we must make an effort to be seen.”

  Honoria raised her brows. “In that case, Therese Osbaldestone came up two days ago. A select gathering has been summoned to attend her tomorrow for morning tea.” She grinned. “You should come with me.”

  Caro met Honoria’s eyes. “You know perfectly well she’ll pounce on me and lecture me. You’re just trying to divert her attention.”

  Honoria opened her eyes wide, spread her hands. “Of course. What are friends for, after all?”

  Caro laughed.

  Devil and Michael rose; she and Honoria turned to view them inquiringly.

  Devil grinned. “I’ll return your late husband’s will. While my people couldn’t find anything significant in it, there are a number of matters I need to clarify with Michael, so if you’ll excuse us, we’ll retire to my study.”

  Caro found herself smiling and inclining her head—even while her mind retreaded his words and found no request for permission in them. But by then, the door was closing. Looking at Honoria, she raised a quizzical brow. “Tell me—were those ‘matters’ to be clarified to do with the will, or something else entirely?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Devil and Michael share other interests; however, I, too, suspect those matters are most likely questions about Camden’s will.” Honoria shrugged. “No matter. I’ll get it out of Devil later, and you can drag the information from Michael.

  Rising, she waved Caro up. “Come—I want to show you the other half of my life.”

  Caro rose. The doors to the terrace were open; she could hear the shrill laughter of children playing on the lawns beyond. Linking her arm in Honoria’s, she strolled with her outside. “How many?”

  “Three.”

  The satisfaction and deep happiness that rang in Honoria’s voice slipped under Caro’s guard, and touched her. She glanced at Honoria, but she was looking ahead. Love and pride glowed in her face.

  Caro followed her gaze to where three children romped on the lush lawn. Two brown-haired young boys held wooden swords; under the watchful gaze of two nursemaids, they were staging a fight. One of the nursemaids juggled a toddler, a dark-haired poppet, on her knee.

  Honoria steered her down the steps. “Sebastian—sometimes known as Earith—is nearly five, Michael is three, and Louisa is one.”

  Caro smiled. “You have been busy.”

  “No, Devil’s been busy—I’ve been occupied.” Not even her laughter could disguise Honoria’s joy.

  The dark-haired poppet saw them and waved chubby arms. “Mama!”

  The demand was imperious. They walked that way, then Honoria lifted her daughter into her arms. The child cooed—literally—wrapped her arms about her mother’s neck, and snuggled her curly head onto Honoria’s shoulder. Her wide, pale green eyes, impossibly long- and lushlylashed, remained fixed—openly inquisitive—on Caro.

  “Contrary to all appearances”—Honoria squinted down at her daughter—“this is the dangerous one. She’s already got her father wrapped about her little finger, and when her brothers aren’t busy fighting each other, they’re her knights to command.”

  Caro grinned. “A very sensible young lady.”

  Honoria chuckled, gently jigging Louisa. “She’ll do.”

  At that moment, a wail rent the air. “Oowww! You did that on purpose!”

  All eyes deflected to the would-be swordsmen; they’d progressed further down the lawn. Michael was rolling on the grass holding his knee.

  Sebastian stood over him, a scowl on his face. “I didn’t hit you there—that would be a foul blow. It was your own silly sword—you stuck yourself with the hilt!”

  “Didn’t!”

  The nursemaids hovered, unsure whether to intervene, given that their charges had not yet come to blows.

  Honoria took one look at her eldest son’s face—and untangled Louisa and thrust her into Caro’s arms. “Here—hold her. Any minute now a deadly insult is going to be uttered—and then it’ll have to be avenged!”

  Left with no option, Caro hefted Louisa, a warm, resilient bundle, into her arms.

  Honoria walked quickly down the lawn. “Hold hard, you two! Let’s just see what’s going on here.”

  “Prrrt.”

  Caro refocused on Louisa. Unlike her behavior with Honoria, the little girl sat up in Caro’s arms and stared into her face.

  “Prrrt,” she said again, chubby fingers not very steadily pointing to Caro’s eyes. Then the tiny fingers touched her cheeks. Louisa leaned close, peering at first one eye, then the other.

  She clearly found them fascinating.

  “You, my sweet, have very pretty eyes, too,” Caro informed her. They were her father’s eyes, yet not—a similar shade, yet softer, more beguiling… oddly familiar. Caro searched her memory, then realized. She smiled. “You have your grandmother’s eyes.”

  Louisa blinked at her, then lifted her gaze to Caro’s hair. A huge, delighted smile wreathed Louisa’s face. “Prrrtttt!”

  She reached for the corona of frizzy golden brown; Caro tensed to feel a tug—instead, the tiny hands touched gently, patting, then lacing lightly through. Louisa’s face filled with wonder, big eyes wide as she stiffened her pudgy fingers and drew strands free, marveling…

  Caro knew she should stop her—her hair was wayward enough as it was—yet… she couldn’t. She could only watch, her heart turning over, as the little girl explored, curious and enthralled.

  The wonder of discovery lit the small, vivid face, glowed in her eyes.

  Caro fought, tried so hard to keep the thought from forming, but it wouldn’t be held down. Would she ever have a child like this—hold a child of her own like this—and witness again this simple joy, be touched by such open, innocent pleasure?

  Children had never been part of the equation of her marriage. Although she was close to he
r nieces and nephews, she’d rarely seen them as babies, or even as young children—she couldn’t recall carrying any of them, not even at Louisa’s age.

  She hadn’t thought of children of her own—hadn’t allowed herself to; there’d been no point. Yet the warm weight of Louisa in her arms opened a well of longing she hadn’t until then realized she possessed.

  “Thank you.” Honoria returned. “War has been averted and peace restored.” She reached for Louisa.

  Caro gave her up, conscious of a reluctant tug—made all the stronger by Louisa, who made protesting noises and leaned back toward her until Honoria allowed her to place her little hands on Caros face and plant a damp kiss on her cheek.

  “Prrttt!” Louisa said as, satisfied, she turned back to Honoria.

  Honoria smiled. “She thinks you’re pretty.”

  “Ah.” Caro nodded.

  Bootsteps on stone had them looking toward the house; Devil and Michael had come out onto the terrace. The boys saw them; with whoops, they pelted past, swords waving, charging up to the terrace and male company.

  Smiling indulgently, Honoria glanced back, checked that the nursemaids were gathering the scattered toys, then, Louisa in her arms, together with Caro started back up the gently sloping lawn.

  As she paced alongside, Caro tried to rid herself of—or at least suppress—the thought that had taken up residence in her mind. Marrying just to have children was surely as bad as marrying just to gain a hostess. But she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at Louisa, secure and settled in Honoria’s arms.

  The little girl’s eyes were wide, her gaze open, yet intent, not serious, yet seeing… Caro remembered again why those eyes seemed familiar. Old eyes, knowing eyes, ageless and all-seeing.

  Drawing in a breath, she looked up as they reached the steps to the terrace. She murmured to Honoria as they ascended, “You’re right— she’s the dangerous one.”

  Honoria only smiled. Her gaze fell on her eldest, standing by his father’s side, relating some tale of male significance. Michael was talking with his namesake. She made a mental note to give orders that they could have extra dessert tonight—and Louisa, too, of course.