The Ideal Bride (Cynster Novels)

by Stephanie Laurens

  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.

  Exultation rushed through her, welled, gushed; her mind seized, then whirled on a joyous tide.

  He molded her to him; delighted, she wallowed, greedily grasping every sensation, holding each to her, balm to her old scars, and more, a tantalizing promise of what might be.

  His desire for her was real, indisputably so; she’d actively evoked it. So could they… would he… ?

  Was it possible?

  Her breasts were swollen, hot, tingling; as deliberate as he, she shifted against him, sinuously pressing the aching peaks against his chest, easing and inviting, enticing.

  Michael read her message with incalculable relief; never before had he been so driven by such a simple and powerful need. She was his and he had to have her. Soon. Perhaps even tonight…

  He blocked off the thought, knew he couldn’t—wouldn’t if he was wise—rush her. This time he was playing a long game, one where his goal was forever. And that goal was too valuable, too precious, too fundamentally important to him—to who he was and who he would be, too much a central part of his future to in any way risk.

  But she’d offered him an opportunity to make his case; he wasn’t about to decline.

  He found it surprisingly difficult to free enough of his mind to take stock, to assess the possibilities. The vision of the padded bench beside them flashed through his mind; he acted on it, eased her back enough to straddle the bench, then drew her down to the deep cushions with him.

  Her hands framing his face, she clung to the kiss. Leaning back until his shoulders propped against the arch’s side, he drew her with him, settling her within one arm. She went readily, leaning into him, her forearms on his chest, caught in the kiss.

  He reached for her hips, eased her around within the V of his thighs, trapped her lips again, more greedily took her mouth, fed from it as he raised his hands, stroked down her back, and found the laces of her gown.

  They were easily loosened. That accomplished, he slid his hands around, pushing her arms up, over his shoulders so he could close both hands about her breasts. She shuddered; he kneaded and she moaned. He drank in the sound, set himself the task of eliciting more.

  But too soon she was quivering with need, her hands greedily, hungrily grasping—at his hair, his shoulders, sliding beneath his coat to spread and flex evocatively on his chest.

  There were tiny buttons down the front of her bodice; fingers expertly flicking, he undid them, eased aside the fine fabric and reached within—cupped her breast through the thin silk of her chemise.

  Her breath hitched, then her fingers firmed about his nape and she kissed him with almost desperate ardor.

  His desire, already rampant, escalated; he met the demands of her greedy lips, then settled to pander to her ravenous senses. And his.

  Within minutes they were both heated, both wanting and needing yet more. Unquestioning, he reached for the ribbon bows securing her chemise, with deft tugs unraveled them. Boldly drew the thin barrier down and set his palm to her breast, skin to naked skin.

  The sensual shock shook them both. Their responses, instantaneous, seemed mutual, like strands of the same desire twining and tightening, growing stronger, gaining power through the simple fact that they both wanted this, needed this, somehow quite desperately needed the other, all the other could bring, could give.

  He didn’t doubt she was with him when he pushed the halves of her bodice aside and laid her breasts bare. Reverently cupped the firm, swollen mounds in his hands; thumbs cruising, brushing her nipples, already tightly furled, he drew his head back, broke from the kiss, and looked down.

  In the faint light her skin shone like pearl; its exquisitely fine texture felt like silk. Fine silk heated by the provocative flush of desire. He looked his fill, examined, caressed, and she shuddered.

  Caro briefly closed her eyes, fleetingly marveled at the intense sensations slicing through her, that he so easily evoked.

  She’d been this far before, but this time she felt immeasurably more alive. Last time… she thrust the old memories away, buried them. Ignored their taunting. This time everything felt so very different.

  Opening her eyes, she fixed them on Michael’s face, drank in the lean, severe lines, handsome but austere. His attention was wholly focused on her, on her breasts… they weren’t large, were, indeed, rather underweight, yet the concentration, the intensity in his expression, was impossible to mistake. He found them satisfying, worthy…

  As if he’d read her mind, his gaze flicked up to her face, briefly searched, then his lips curved… the tenor of that smile sent heat rushing through her.

  He shifted. Eyes locking on hers, he released one breast, slid that arm around her waist, then eased her back over it.

  And bent his head.

  She closed her eyes, sucked in a breath as his lips touched her, as they cruised, firm and taunting, over the aching swell of her breast, then followed a tortuous path to its peak.

  He teased, and she felt her body react as it never had before. Nerves unfurled, came alive, greedily reaching for sensation—for the sensations he created as he tormented her flesh, until it ached and pulsed. Spread over his shoulders, her fingers tightened involuntarily. She felt his breath warm on her nipple, then he lapped.

  Licked, laved, and she gasped.

  “Say my name.”

  She did. He drew her nipple into his mouth and suckled. Strongly. She nearly shrieked.

  He released her with a soft chuckle. “There’s no one near enough to hear.”

  Just as well; he bent his head to her other breast and repeated the torture until she begged. Only then did he take what she so willingly offered, and give her all she wanted.

  All she’d never had before.

  He was gentle yet forceful, experienced and knowing. But although he clearly took pleasure in pleasuring her, that at no time disguised his ultimate goal.

  She wasn’t the least surprised when his hand slid down from her now burning breast to splay over her stomach. To knead evocatively, then press lower, gently stroking her curls through her gown before reaching further, until his long fingers provocatively probed the indentation at the apex of her thighs.

  What did surprise her was her response, the flood of heat that pooled low in her body, the tightening of muscles of which she’d never before been aware, the sudden hot throbbing in the soft flesh between her thighs.

  He raised his head; his touch firmed, grew more demanding. She heard the taut tension that held him when he let out a short breath. His lips touched her throat, traced upward, circled her ear, brushed her temple. “Caro?”

  He wanted her; she didn’t doubt it, yet… “I don’t… I’m not sure…”

  The moment had come far sooner than she’d expected; she wasn’t sure what she should do.

  Michael sighed, but didn’t retrieve his hand from the heated hollow between her thighs. He continued to caress her while verifying the information his senses had intuitively gauged. Confirmed that she did indeed want him, that she might, if he asked…

  “I want you.” He didn’t need to embellish that; the truth rang in the gravelly words. He was hard and aching, one step away from pain. With one fingertip, he circled the soft fullness of her flesh through her gown. “I want to come inside you, sweet Caro. There’s no reason on earth we shouldn’t indulge.”

  Caro heard; the words fell, dark and deeply seductive, into her mind. She knew they were true, at least as he meant them. But he didn’t know… and if she agreed, and then… what if, despite all, it went wrong again? If she was wrong again?

  She could feel her pulse pounding under her skin, could, for the first time in her life, imagine it was desire, hot and sweet, that she felt, that filled her and urged her to agree, to simply nod—and let him have his way. Let him show her�
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  But if it went wrong, how would she feel? How could she face him?

  She couldn’t.

  With his hand stroking her, caressing her, blatant promise in every touch, with desire thrumming compulsively in her veins, it required immense effort to draw back. To gather enough will to resist, to say no.

  He seemed to sense her decision, spoke quickly, urgently, almost desperately, “We can be married whenever you wish, but for God’s sake, sweetheart, let me come inside you.”

  His words crashed over her in an icy wave, drowning all desire. Panic, full blown, reared from the coldness and gripped her.

  She jerked back out of his hold. Horrified, she stared at him. “What did you say?”

  The words were weak; her world was whirling, but no longer pleasantly.

  Michael blinked, stared at her stunned face—mentally replayed his words. Inwardly grimaced. He frowned lightly at her. “For pity’s sake, Caro, you know where we’ve been heading. I want to make love with you.”

  Very thoroughly. Multiple times. He hadn’t realized just how powerful that need had grown, but it now had him in its grip and wasn’t about to let go. Not until… Her sudden vacillation wasn’t helping.

  Her eyes had been fixed on his face, searching… she stiffened even more. “No, you don’t—you want to marry me!”

  The accusation hit him like a slap, one that left him disoriented. He stared at her, then felt his face set. “I want—and intend—to do both.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “One once, the other frequently.”

  She narrowed her eyes back. “Not with me.”

  Her chin set; she reached for her chemise and yanked it up. “I don’t intend to marry again.”

  He watched the gorgeous mounds of her breasts disappear behind the flimsy barrier; it might as well have been steel. He bit back an oath, forced himself to think… he thrust a hand through his hair. “But what… this is ridiculous! You can’t expect me to believe you thought I would seduce you—my closest neighbor’s sister—the past Member’s sister—and not be thinking of marriage.”

  She was retying the straps of her chemise, her movements jerky and tense. He knew she was upset, but it was difficult to tell exactly in what way. She glanced up; her gaze clashed with his. “Try another tack.” Her tone was flat and uncompromising. “I’m rather more than seven.”

  Looking down, she wriggled her gown back up and into place. “I’m a widow—I thought you wanted to seduce me, not marry me!”

  Accusation still rang in her tone, still lit her silver eyes. His disori-entation wasn’t improving. “But… what’s wrong with us getting mar-

  tied? For heaven’s sake! You know I need a wife, and why, and here you are, the perfect candidate.“

  She recoiled as if he’d struck her, then her mask slammed into place and she looked down. “Except I don’t want to marry again—I will not do so.”

  Abruptly, she stood, swung around, and presented him with her back. “You undid my laces—please do them up again.”

  Her voice shook. Narrow-eyed, he regarded her slender back, her hands locked on her hips, was conscious of a building impulse to simply seize her and be damned… but she suddenly seemed so fragile.

  He swung his leg back over the bench and surged to his feet, stepped directly behind her, caught her lacings and yanked them tight. Exasperation and an even more powerful frustration dug their spurs deep. “Just answer me this.” He kept his eyes on the laces as he tightened, then tied them. “If my mentioning marriage is such a shock to you, what did you imagine what’s been developing between us would lead to? How did you think this would play out?”

  Head up, spine rigid, she looked straight ahead. “I told you. I’m a widow. Widows don’t need to get married to…”

  In lieu of words, she gestured.

  “Indulge?”

  Jaw setting, Caro nodded. “Indeed. That’s what I thought this was about.” He was almost finished with her laces; she wanted nothing more than to flee, to retreat with dignity intact before any of the emotions roiling within her could rupture her control. Her head was spinning so badly she felt sick. A deathly chill was slowly claiming her.

  “But you’re the Merry Widow. You don’t have affairs.”

  The barb struck home in a way he couldn’t have foreseen. She sucked in a breath, lifted her chin. Forced her voice steady. “I’m merely extremely finicky about whom I choose to have affairs with.” His hands stilled; she tensed to leave. “But as that’s not your real goal—”

  “Wait.”

  She had to; the damned man had hooked his fingers in her laces. She let out a frustrated hiss.

  “Having you is a very real goal of mine.” He spoke slowly, his tone uninflected.

  She couldn’t see his face but sensed he was thinking, swiftly readjusting his strategy… she moistened her lips. “What do you mean?”

  A full minute ticked by, long enough for her to grow aware of her own heartbeat, of the increasingly oppressive atmosphere building before the storm. Yet the elemental threat beyond the summerhouse wasn’t sufficient to distract her from the turbulence within, from the potent presence standing in the dimness behind her. His fingers hadn’t moved; he was still holding her laces.

  Then she sensed him shift nearer; he bent his head so his words fell by her ear, his breath brushing the side of her face. “If you could choose, how would you wish this—what’s been growing between us— to develop?”

  A subtle shiver tingled down her spine. If she could choose… she dragged in a breath past the vise gripping her lungs. Determinedly stepped forward—forcing him to let go. He did, reluctantly.

  “I’m a widow.” Halting two paces away, she pressed her hands tightly together, then faced him. Fixing her eyes on his, she lifted her chin. “It’s perfectly feasible—a straightforward matter—for us to have an affair.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Just so I have this perfectly straight… you, the Merry Widow, are agreeing to be seduced.” He paused, then asked, “Is that correct?”

  She held his gaze, wished she didn’t need to answer, finally, briefly, nodded. “Yes.”

  He stood silent, still, studying her; she could read nothing from his face, in the dimness couldn’t see his eyes. Then he stirred almost imperceptibly; she sensed an inner sigh.

  When he spoke, his voice was stripped of all lightness, all seduction, all pretense. “I don’t want an affair, Caro—I want to marry you.”

  She couldn’t hide her reaction, the instinctive, deeply ingrained panic, her desperate recoil from the very words—from the threat in those words. Her lungs had clamped tight; head rising, muscles tensing, she faced him.

  Even through the dimness, Michael saw her fear, saw the panic that dulled her silver eyes. He fought the urge to grab her, to haul her into his arms and soothe her, reassure her… what was this?

  “I don’t want to get married—I won’t ever marry again. Not you. Not any man.” The words quavered with emotion, charged, resolute. She dragged in a breath. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to the house.”

  She swung away.

  “Caro—”

  “No!” Blindly, she held up a hand; her head rose higher. “Please… just forget it. Forget all this. It won’t work.”

  With a shake of her head, she picked up her skirts and walked quickly across the summerhouse, down the steps, then hurried—almost ran—away across the lawn.

  Michael stood in the shadows of the summerhouse with the storm closing in, and wondered what the devil had gone wrong.

  Later that night, with the wind shrieking about the eaves and lashing the trees in the wood, he stood at his library window, a glass of brandy in his hand, watching the treetops flex, and thinking. Of Caro.

  He didn’t understand, couldn’t even guess what was behind her aversion—her complete and. unequivocal rejection—of another marriage. The sight of her face when he’d reiterated his wish to marry her replayed again and again in his mind.


  Regardless of that reaction, his intention had deflected not at all. He would marry her. The thought of not having her as his wife had become simply unacceptable—he didn’t completely understand that either, but knew absolutely that it was so. In some odd way, the events of the evening had only hardened his resolve.

  He sipped his brandy, looked out, unseeing, and plotted his way forward; he’d never been one to back away from a challenge, even from a challenge he’d never in his wildest dreams imagined he would face.

  As matters stood, his task was not to seduce Caro in the customary sense—it appeared he’d already largely succeeded in that, or could succeed whenever he wished. Instead, his true aim—his Holy Grail—was to seduce her into marriage.

  His lips twisted wryly; he drained his glass. When he’d headed south from Somersham intent on securing his ideal bride, he’d never imagined he’d face such a battle—that the lady who was his ideal consort would not happily accept his proposal.

  So much for blind arrogance.

  Turning from the window, he crossed to an armchair. Sinking down, setting his empty glass on the side table, he steepled his fingers; propping his chin on his thumbs, he stared across the room.

  Caro was stubborn, resolute.

  He was stubborner, and prepared to be relentless.

  The only way to undermine her resistance, so strong and entrenched as it clearly was, was to attack its source. Whatever that was.

  He needed to find out, and the only way to learn was via Caro.

  The best approach seemed obvious. Straightforward, even simple.

  First he would get her into his bed, then he’d learn what he needed and do whatever it took to keep her there.

  Chapter 10

  The following afternoon, Caro sat in the window seat of the back parlor and embroidered, while across the room Edward and Elizabeth played chess.

  She was not good company; she’d spent all morning trying to distract herself with plans for the fete, now only three days away, but she remained upset and angry.