Michael woke in the night, in the small hours when the world lay blanketed and asleep. About him, the huge old house lay silent and still; he rested warm beneath soft covers, Caro curled against his side.
He smiled, felt relief and quiet joy spread through him. Realized his head had stopped throbbing. Reaching up, he touched the bump, confirmed it still hurt if touched, but otherwise was bearable.
Beside him, Caro stirred. She seemed to realize he was awake; lifting her head, she peered into his face, then blinked her eyes wide. “How are you feeling?”
He’d barely made it to her room before collapsing; she’d helped him undress and crawl beneath the covers—he’d fallen asleep the instant his face touched the pillow. “Much better.” He studied her face, put out a hand to stroke her hair, smiled. “Your tonic worked.”
Her look said “I told you so,” but she refrained from uttering the words. Instead, she searched his eyes, then, shifting further over, crossed her arms on his chest and settled to look into his face. “If you are properly awake and compos mentis, I wanted to ask you a question.”
He hid a frown; she seemed terribly serious. “I’m awake. What question?”
She hesitated, then drew a deep breath—he felt her breasts press into his chest. “How soon can we marry?” It came out calmly enough; she continued, “I’ve made my decision. I know what I want—there’s nothing more I need to wait for. That is,” she held his gaze, arched a brow, “assuming you still want to marry me.”
“You don’t have to ask.” He closed one hand over her waist—over her latest silk confection. He hadn’t yet seen it; he would—soon. “But…” He tried to stop himself questioning fate, yet he had to know. “What convinced you—brought on your decision?”
“You. Me.” She searched his eyes. “And seeing Muriel point a pistol at your head. That… opened my eyes—I suddenly saw things terribly clearly.” She paused, her eyes on his, then went on, “You’d convinced me that I should marry you, that being your wife was the right position for me, but I sensed some element was missing, some last vital thing.” Her lips twisted ironically. “I realized what was missing was me, or rather my decision itself. I had to, in Therese Osbalde-stone’s words, ‘claim my courage and seize the day’ Until I did, until I knowingly accepted the risk and went forward, what’s grown between us couldn’t develop further.”
She shifted, her legs tangling with his. “Muriel and her threats brought home to me all I was risking by not deciding—by not taking the risk. Life is for living, not hating, but it’s not for wasting, either. You and I, we’ve both wasted years, but now we have a chance to go forward.”
She met his gaze openly, without any veil or shield. “Together we can build a family, fill the Manor with children and joy. And the Half Moon Street house, too—I could imagine living there with you, being your hostess, your helpmate to a much greater degree than I ever was with Camden.”
Her eyes were purest silver in the night. “Together, we’ve a chance to create our future as we want it to be. Whether what we feel will see us through…” She tilted her head. “It’s a risk, yes, but one worth taking.” Her lips lifted lightly as she refocused on his eyes. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take with you.”
He smiled, felt every last vestige of concern fall from him. “Thank you.” He closed his arms about her, held her close, felt her warmth sink to his bones. “We can be married as soon as you like—I’ve got a special license.”
Before she could think too much about that last, he bent his head, nudged hers up, and kissed her—a kiss that rapidly spun out of control, his or hers.
Several heated minutes later, she pulled back, gasped, “What about your head?”
“It’ll be fine,” he groaned, “if you’ll just”—throwing back the covers, he caught her knees, drew them up to his sides, adjusted beneath her, sighed and closed his eyes—“sit back.”
Caro did, smiling blissfully, exhaling slowly as she took him in.
And all was well. Very well.
* * *
They dealt with the last loose end of Camden Sutcliffe’s life the next morning. When they’d taken Timothy home the day before, Caro had retrieved Camden’s letters. Ferdinand called at eleven o’clock, armed with a list of dates; it was a simple enough matter to find the relevant letters.
Caro read them, confirmed they were not only what Ferdinand wanted but also seriously inflammatory; they dealt with a proposed coup to be led by the duke many years ago, a few months before Camden had been appointed ambassador to Portugal. Satisfied there was nothing in the letters to concern the present British government, she handed them to Ferdinand. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
He looked down at her, then smiled his winning smile. “Dear Caro, you are known too well for that. If I’d asked, you would have looked, and then you might have felt compelled to let someone in your Foreign Office know…” He shrugged. “It could have ended badly.”
Considering what she’d just read, she had to agree; for the duke, the stakes had been, and still were, high.
With smiles all around, Ferdinand shook hands and left.
She turned to Michael, raised a brow. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to visit Timothy. Given your views on my visiting his house, I imagine you would prefer to accompany me?”
Michael met her gaze. “You imagine correctly.”
They went, and found Breckenridge lying in bed, interestingly pale, very weak, but fully conscious—and not at all receptive to Caro’s fussing, let alone her tonic. Michael saw the desperate plea in Breckenridge’s eyes and took pity. Wincing as if from a headache, when Caro noticed he suggested that perhaps he needed to return home to rest.
She reacted as he’d expected with instant solicitude. Behind her back, Breckenridge rolled his eyes, but wisely remained mute.
Later in the afternoon, on his way to his club to meet with Jamieson, Michael looked in again on Breckenridge. This time, Timothy was propped up in bed; Michael lounged in the doorway.
Timothy eyed him, then faintly smiled. “I suppose I should thank you. I had no idea she was such an excellent shot.”
“So I assumed. But you can avoid doing violence to your feelings— I saved you because of Caro. Strange to tell, she seems to value you.”
Letting his head rest against his pillows, Timothy grinned. “Indeed.
Do bear that in mind for the future.“ He considered Michael, then added, ”Of course, you wouldn’t have saved me if you’d known in doing so you’d incapacitate yourself in the process.“
Michael didn’t smile. “I would never knowingly leave Caro unprotected.”
Timothy’s eyes glinted from beneath his heavy lids. “Just so.” His smile dawned.
Michael was sure they understood each other perfectly.
“So,” Timothy lifted a glass and sipped Caro’s cordial, grimaced, “why are you here?”
“To prey on your gratitude,” Michael replied. “This might well be the only chance I get.”
Brows rising, Timothy studied him, then waved him to a chair. “What do you want?”
Pushing away from the doorframe, Michael closed the door. Crossing to the chair, he turned it and sat astride; folding his arms along the back, he met Timothy’s eyes..“I want to know what the relationship between Caro and Camden was.”
Timothy’s eyes widened. “Ah…” He blinked, refocused on Michael. Hesitated, then said, “I presume you know…”
“That their marriage was unconsummated? Yes. What I want to know is why.”
Timothy smiled. “That, as it happens, is easy to explain—because the great Camden Sutcliffe, womanizer of the world, bit off more than he could chew.”
Michael blinked. Timothy explained, “Camden was a connoisseur of women. From the moment he set eyes on her, he lusted after Caro— not as she then was so much as for the potential he correctly identified, for what he knew she could become. On all levels. That was what drove him to marry her. However, Camden was very much
aware he was forty years her senior; when it came to the sexual side of things, he became so anxious that he wouldn’t be able to satisfy her, or keep satisfying her, he couldn’t perform at all.”
Michael stared. “You’re sure of that?”
Timothy nodded. “He told me himself, years after they were wed. He simply couldn’t, not with her.”
Michael digested that, eventually again met Timothy’s eyes. “Did he love her?”
“I’m not sure Camden knew the meaning of the word ‘love,’ not as you use it—not as Caro would use it. He was devoted to her, but more in a sense of being obsessed with the aspects of her potential he could and did unlock. But love?” Timothy grimaced deprecatingly. “If Cam-den ever loved anyone other than himself, it would, I suppose, be me.”
Michael raised his brows. “Because you’re like him?”
Timothy inclined his head. “So he believed.”
Michael suspected that was another mistake Camden had made.
“I don’t think Caro ever knew his reason—I’d take an oath Camden never told her. He was a confusing man—selfless and devoted to his country, but in all things personal, utterly self-centered.” Timothy caught Michael’s gaze. “If I’d believed it would have helped, I’d have told Caro myself, but…”
His face hardened, but he didn’t look away. “The past can’t be changed—believe me, I know. It can only be laid to rest. That’s what Muriel wouldn’t accept.” His features eased, his lips curving. “Caro was always much wiser.”
Michael studied his face, heard truth ring in his tone. Wisdom from the mouth of one of the ton’s foremost rakes?
Timothy looked away, took another sip of his cordial. “One thing— before he leaves town with Muriel, can you tell Hedderwick about me?” He met Michael’s eyes. “While I shudder at the thought that she’s my half sister, I will want to keep track of her.”
Michael agreed; Timothy might want to remain advised of Muriel’s whereabouts purely for his own protection, but Michael was starting to suspect that Timothy was more likely to protect Muriel, and ensure her welfare, than anything else. For all he wasn’t like Camden, he was in one respect his sire’s son—a complex character.
Timothy grimaced. “I have two older sisters—half sisters. I’ve always in jest referred to them as my evil, ugly sisters.” He winced. “Never again.”
The words had barely passed his lips when a tap on the door heralded his man. “Lady Constance has arrived, m’lord. She’s heard about your injury and is demanding to see you.”
Timothy stared at him, then slumped back and groaned. Feelingly.
Michael laughed. Standing, he gripped Timothy’s hand, assured him he’d let Hedderwick know of Timothy’s interest, then beat a hasty retreat.
Timothy muttered darkly—something about deserting fallen comrades and leaving them to the enemy.
On the stairs, Michael passed Lady Constance Rafferty, a handsome matron grimly set on her task; they exchanged nods, but she didn’t pause, regally sweeping into her brother’s chamber.
Grinning, Michael left the house, abandoning Timothy to Lady Constance’s tender mercies.
Later that night, when he’d joined Caro in her bedchamber and she stood within the circle of his arms, he smiled down at her and mentioned his visit to Timothy and Lady Constance’s arrival. “He seemed stronger. I’m sure between you and his sisters, he’ll make an amazing recovery.”
Caro narrowed her eyes at him. “Was he taking my cordial?”
“I witnessed it with my own eyes.”
“Humph! Just as well.” She leaned into him, reached up and carefully speared her fingers through his hair, gently explored the back of his skull. “It still hurts,” she said when he winced.
“Nothing like it did.” He spread his hands and drew her to him, molded her to him. “And my head isn’t spinning in the least.”
Her eyes searched his; her smile was slow, filled with sultry promise. “Perhaps I should rectify that.”
“Indeed. I’m quite sure that falls under the heading of wifely duties.” He’d used the term deliberately; her lashes had been lowering, but now they rose and she met his eyes.
She read them, then drew breath, exhaled. “We haven’t discussed the details.”
“The details,” he informed her, “remain up to you. Whatever you want, whatever you wish. Whenever you wish.”
She studied his eyes, smiled. “I believe you mentioned a special license?”
She had remembered; he’d wondered. He nodded. “I have one.”
Gently, within his arms, she swished her hips side to side, back and forth, the exquisitely sheer figured silk of her gown a tantalizing whisper shielding her svelte curves. Her eyes never left his. “Perhaps we should marry as soon as possible…” Her gaze dropped to his lips; she licked hers, then met his gaze again. “Can you see any reason to wait?”
He could see every reason to rush ahead. “Three days.” He tightened his hold on her, anchoring her distracting hips, almost groaning as he realized how aroused she’d succeeded in making him. “Soon!”
She laughed, that light airy, truly carefree sound he’d heard too infrequently to date. “It’s the height of summer—hardly anyone’s in town. And they’ll never forgive us if we slip away and tie the knot without them.”
Michael thought of Honoria, and groaned aloud. “Invitiations, organization.” More delay.
“Don’t worry—I’ll handle it.” Caro smiled up at him. “Let’s say the end of next week…” Her smile faded; her eyes remained on his, open, yet… “Can we hold the wedding breakfast at the Manor?”
“Of course.” He didn’t ask why, left the choice to her.
Her silver gaze remained locked with his. “When I married Cam-den, we had the breakfast at Bramshaw House. But that’s the past, one I’ve left behind. I want our wedding to be a fresh start—for me, it is. It’s a new start, walking a different road, with you.”
He looked into her silvery eyes, clear, decided, resolute. He’d been weighing whether to tell her what Timothy had revealed, to help her understand that the sexual failure of her first marriage had never been her fault, or whether to simply let the past die.
She’d just made the decision for him—she’d put the past behind her, shut the door and turned away. And now she was committed to walking into the future with her hand in his, and making the best they could of it together.
He smiled into her eyes. “I love you.”
Her brows lightly rose; her eyes glowed softly. “I know. I love you, too—at least, I believe I do.” She searched his eyes, then said, “It has to be that, don’t you think—this feeling?”
He knew she wasn’t referring to the warmth that was spreading through them, heating their skins, sliding through their veins, but the force that drove it—that power that most tangibly manifested when they were locked together, when they gave themselves each to the other, the power that at such times waxed so strong they could feel it, could almost touch it. The power that day by day bound them ever more closely.
“Yes,” he said, and lowered his head, found her lips, accepted her invitation and sank into her mouth. And devoted himself to showing her that to him she was the most desirable woman in the world.
By giving himself up to that power.
They were wed in the church in Bramshaw village. The ton turned out in force; so, too, did London’s diplomatic elite. It might have been a political and diplomatic nightmare, yet with Caro decreeing and Honoria enforcing, with able lieutenants among the many Cynster ladies and connections, no one dared create a fuss over anything, and the event passed without a single hitch.
From the packed church, running a gauntlet of flowers and a fine hail of rice, Caro and Michael made their way through the crowd that hadn’t managed to squeeze inside, then climbed up to an open barouche for the drive back to the Manor.
There, a massive feast had been laid out; everyone was welcome— everyone came. The crowd was enormous, the good
wishes unfeigned; the sun shone down in glorious benediction as, hand in hand, they did the rounds, greeting, thanking, talking.
The crowd didn’t start thinning until late in the afternoon. Still wearing her ivory lace wedding gown heavily beaded with tiny seed pearls, Caro saw Timothy, a glass in his hand, sit down on the orchard wall, grinning as he watched the younger crew playing bat and ball along the back section of the drive. She leaned close to Michael, brushed his jaw with her lips, met his gaze. Smiled serenely. “I’m going to talk to Timothy.”
Michael looked over her head, then nodded. “I’m going to get Magnus inside. I’ll find you when I come out.”
Drawing away, leaving his side yet aware some part of her never truly would, she followed the lawn bordering the drive, and came up beside Timothy.
He glanced up as she sank onto the stone beside him. Grinned, and raised his glass to her. “An exceptional event.” He held her gaze, then took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I’m pleased you’re so happy.” Gently squeezing her hand, he released it.
They sat in the sunshine and watched the game, then she remembered and murmured, “Hedderwick sent his felicitations. He’s staying in Cornwall with Muriel. He’s a quiet man, but a steady one—I think he truly loves her, but she never seemed to see it.”
“Or wasn’t content with it.” Timothy shrugged. “That was Muriel’s choice.” Facing her, he smiled his rakish smile. “You, at least, have had the sense to plunge into life and live it.”
Caro arched a brow. “And you?”
He laughed. “As you know full well, that’s always been my creed.” His gaze went past her; he stood as Michael joined them.
They exchanged easy nods.
“How’s the shoulder?” Michael asked.
Caro listened as they swapped quips, inwardly smiled. They weren’t at all alike, yet they seemed to have settled into an easy camaraderie based on mutual masculine respect.
Then Timothy glanced down at her; she rose and slipped her hand onto Michael’s arm.
“I must leave,” Timothy said. “I’m off north to spend the next weeks with Brunswick.” He glanced at Michael, then leaned close and kissed Caro’s cheek. “I wish you both the very best of happiness.”
The Ideal Bride c-12 Page 43