The Ideal Bride (Cynster Novels)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Camden had married her for her talents, her undeniable skills. From what he knew of Camden, that came as no surprise; if any man had known which innate abilities were required to produce a topnotch hostess, and been able to recognize them in a raw young lady of seventeen, Camden had been that man. He’d already buried two highly talented wives.

  That, however, wasn’t the problem. Caro hadn’t understood, had thought he’d been marrying her for other reasons, presumably the usual romantic reasons young ladies dreamed of, and Camden—

  Michael gritted his teeth, but had no difficulty imagining the Camden he’d known and heard so much about deploying his charm and glittering, multifaceted personality to dazzle a young lady he’d wanted for his own. Oh, yes, he would have done it, knowingly led her up the garden path, let her think what she would—anything to gain what he’d wanted.

  He’d wanted Caro, and got her.

  But to her, it had all been under false pretenses.

  That was what had wounded her, scarred her; the spot was still tender, even after all these years.

  Just how tender, he’d seen for himself; he wouldn’t willingly prod that point anew. He didn’t, however, regret doing so. If he hadn’t… at least he now knew what he faced.

  Given that she was fully cognizant of his own urgent and very real need for just such a wife as Camden had wanted, just the sort of talented female she herself was, getting her to agree to marry him was going to be an uphill slog.

  And that’s where the gigantic, triple-bar water jump stood—not in the way of getting her into his bed, but between him and his ultimate goal.

  He pondered that, then decided it lay too far ahead—who knew what might happen between then and now? Perhaps another, clearer route to marriage would open up, and he wouldn’t need to front that gigantic, triple-bar water jump after all.

  His plans were sound; one step at a time—secure one goal before moving on to take the next.

  Leaving the subject, setting it aside, he tried to concentrate on his aunt Harriet’s latest letter. He read one more paragraph before his mind wandered… to Caro.

  Stifling a curse, he folded the letter and tossed it on the pile on his desk. Five minutes later, he was on Atlas’s back, cantering toward Bramshaw.

  Wisdom insisted that the day of a ball—and despite what he’d said, Caro’s Midsummer Revels, attended by so many diplomatic personages, would be no minor event—was not the time to call on any lady. If he had any sense, he would have done as he’d planned and played least in sight. Yet here he was…

  He decided that, aside from all else, it would be unfair to leave Edward to watch over Caro on his own. Geoffrey would doubtless have taken refuge in his study and would not be seen until dinner, so someone should be there who had some chance of reining Caro in, should that prove necessary.

  He found her on the terrace, directing the placement of tables and chairs on the lawns below. Absorbed with waving two footmen carrying a table further to the right, she didn’t realize he was there until he slid his hands around her waist and lightly squeezed.

  “Oh—hello.” She glanced distractedly up and back at him, slightly breathless.

  He grinned down at her, let his hands drift down, lightly caressing her hips. The small army on the lawn below couldn’t see.

  She frowned—sternly warning. “Have you come to help?”

  He sighed, resigned, and nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  Fatal words, as he quickly discovered; she had a list of errands as long as his arm. The first she shot his way involved moving furniture in and out of the reception rooms; some pieces had to be temporarily lodged in various other places. While the footmen struggled with sideboards and larger pieces, he, along with Edward and Elizabeth, was detailed to see to the lamps, mirrors, and other awkward but delicate and valuable items. Some needed to be removed, others repositioned. The next hour flew.

  Once she was satisfied with the dispositions within doors, Caro returned outside. A marquee had to be erected to one side of the lawn; Michael exchanged a glance with Edward and they quickly volunteered. Better that than lug urns and heavy pots about the terrace and along the walks.

  Elizabeth said she’d help. The canvas of the marquee lay folded at the edge of the lawn along with the clutter of its poles, guy ropes, and the stakes to anchor them. Between the three of them—Caro was off overseeing something else—they got the canvas laid out, then came their less-than-successful attempts to get the poles in position and hoist the canvas aloft. The marquee was hexagonal, not square—as they quickly learned, a much more difficult proposition.

  Eventually, Michael got one corner aloft. Holding the pole steady, he nodded at Edward. “See if you can get the central pole up.”

  Edward, by now in his shirtsleeves, eyed the mass of canvas, nodded once, grimly, and dived beneath. He had to fight his way through the folds.

  Within seconds, he was lost. A series of poorly suppressed curses floated out from beneath the heaving canvas. Elizabeth, barely able to contain her laughter, called, “Wait—I’ll help.”

  She, too, dove under the canvas.

  Michael watched, indulgent and amused, leaning against the pole he was propping up.

  “What is taking so long with this?” Caro bustled around the wall of canvas he was supporting. She took note of his hand wrapped about the pole, arm braced, then turned her attention to the still-heaving canvas and the muffled, indistinct but suggestive sounds coming from beneath it.

  Hands rising to her hips, she glared. Muttered beneath her breath, “We don’t have time for this nonsense.”

  Reaching out, he caught her around the waist; before she could protest, he tugged her to him. She landed against him, hands to his chest; the pole wobbled but he managed to keep it upright.

  She caught her breath, looked up at him; he looked deep into her eyes, all but saw her wits marshaling a blistering reproof even while her senses danced a giddy jig. She blinked, fumbling to get her tongue to deliver the protest her brain had formed.

  He smiled, watched her gaze fix on his lips. “Let them have their moment—it’s not going to upset your schedule.” He was about to add, “Don’t you remember what it was like to be that young?” meaning that young and in the throes of first love; he remembered just in time that Caro almost certainly didn’t remember, because almost certainly she’d never known…

  Bending his head, he kissed her, at first gently, until their lips melded, then with increasing passion. Theirs was not a young love, but a more mature engagement; the kiss reflected that, rapidly deepening.

  The wall of canvas screened them from the myriad others hurrying about the lawns and gardens. Edward and Elizabeth were still struggling beneath the marquee.

  Michael lifted his head the instant before Elizabeth emerged, shaking her skirts and valiantly stifling giggles. He released Caro as soon as he was sure she was steady on her feet.

  Elizabeth saw his arm sliding from around Caro’s waist; her eyes widened, sudden understanding writ large in her face.

  Caro saw it; in an uncharacteristic fluster, she flapped her hands at Elizabeth—Edward was still under the marquee. “Do hurry up! We have to get this done.”

  Elizabeth grinned. “Edward’s got the central pole in place, ready to hoist.”

  “Good.” Stepping out quickly, back toward the house, Caro nodded. “Carry on!”

  With that injunction, she bustled away—in a much greater fluster than when she’d bustled up. Michael watched her go, a smile in his eyes, then turned to Elizabeth. Ignoring the speculation in her face, he waved her to a pole. “If you can get the next corner in, we should be able to get the roof up.”

  They managed, albeit with much muted cursing and laughter. With the marquee properly erected and secured, they presented themselves to Caro, who fixed them with one of her more stern looks.

  “Mrs. Judson needs help sorting all the cutlery and glassware for dinner, and for the supper to be laid out in the marquee.�
�� She fixed Elizabeth and Edward with a severe glance. “The two of you can go and help her.”

  Unabashed, the pair smiled and headed for the dining room. Caro turned her strait glance on him. “You can come with me.”

  He grinned. “With pleasure.”

  She humphed and marched past, nose high. He fell into step, half a pace behind her. The swish of her hips was distracting. A quick glance around showed no one else in the corridor; boldly, he reached out and ran a hand over those distracting curves.

  He sensed her nerves leap, heard her breath catch. Her stride faltered, but then she walked on.

  He didn’t take his hand away.

  She slowed as they approached an open doorway. Glanced over her shoulder, struggled to frown direfully. “Stop that.”

  He opened his eyes wide. “Why?”

  “Because…”

  He stroked again and her gaze unfocused. She moistened her lips, then halted at the open doorway and dragged in a breath. “Because you’ll need both hands to carry these.”

  She waved into the room. He looked, and stifled a groan. “These” were huge urns and vases filled with flowers. Two maids were putting the finishing touches to the arrangements.

  Caro smiled at him. Her eyes glinted. “Those two go in the ballroom, and the others are to be stationed about the house—Dora will tell you where each goes. When you’ve finished, I’m sure I can find something else to keep your hands busy.”

  Deliberately, he smiled at her. “If you can’t, I’m sure I’ll be able to suggest something.”

  She humphed as she turned away; he watched her walk down the corridor, distracting hips swishing, then he smiled and turned to the urns.

  Carrying them hither and yon gave him plenty of time to think and plan. As she’d warned, there were arrangements to be placed all over the house, including on the first floor in and near the rooms prepared for the guests staying overnight. Most would arrive in the late afternoon, which explained the frenetic activity, everything before the green baize door had to be perfect before any guests climbed the front steps.

  Carting flower arrangements all over reacquainted him with the house; he was familiar with it, but had never had reason to study the layout in detail. He learned which rooms were guest rooms, which were currently used by the family and Edward, and which would remain unused. There were a few rooms in the last category; after Dora released him, he disappeared upstairs.

  Twenty minutes later he descended, and went looking for Caro. He found her on the terrace, a plate of sandwiches in one hand. The rest of the hungry household were scattered on the lawns, the terrace steps, on the chairs and tables, all munching and drinking from mugs.

  Caro, too, was munching. Stopping beside her, he helped himself to a sandwich from her plate.

  “There you are.” She glanced at him. “I thought you must have left.”

  He met her gaze. “Not without giving you a chance to sate my appetite.”

  She caught the double entendre but, calmly looking forward, waved to the platters of sandwiches and jugs of lemonade placed along the balustrade. “Do help yourself.”

  He grinned and did so; returning to her side with a plate piled high, he murmured, “I’ll remind you you said that.”

  Puzzled, she frowned at him.

  He grinned at her. “Later.”

  Michael remained for another hour, being, Caro had to admit, helpful. He didn’t do anything else to distract her. After his comment on the terrace, he didn’t have to; that exchange replayed in her mind for the rest of the afternoon.

  The man was a past master at ambiguity—a true politician, beyond doubt. Later. Had he meant he’d explain what he’d meant later, or that he’d remind her she’d told him to help himself later?

  The latter possibility, linked with the phrase “giving you a chance to sate my appetite,” constantly intruded on her thoughts—thoughts that should have been focused on the less personal challenges of the evening ahead. As she paused to tweak the delicate filigree headdress she’d chosen into place, she was conscious of not just anticipation, but expectation tightening her nerves, something very close to titillation teasing her senses.

  Casting a last glance over her gown of shimmering ecru silk, noting with approval how it clung to her curves, how it brought out the gold and brown glints in her hair, she settled her large topaz pendant just above her decolletage, made sure her rings were straight, then, finally satisfied she looked her best, headed for the door.

  She reached the main stairs to discover Catten waiting in the front hall. As she descended, he tugged his waistcoat into place and lifted his head. “Shall I sound the gong, ma’am?”

  Stepping off the stairs, she inclined her head. “Indeed. Let our Midsummer Revels commence.”

  She glided into the drawing room, her words still ringing, her lips lifting.

  Michael stood before the fireplace, Geoffrey beside him. Michael’s gaze fixed on her the instant she appeared. She paused on the threshold, then glided on; they both turned to her as she joined them.

  “Well, m’dear, you look fetching—very elegant.” Looking her up and down, with brotherly affection Geoffrey patted her shoulder.

  Caro heard him, but barely saw him. She smiled vaguely in response to the compliment, but her eyes were all for Michael.

  There was something about seeing a gentleman in strict formal attire; true, she’d seen him in formal settings in the past, but… now he was looking at her, appreciating her, visually drinking her in, and watching her do the same, appreciatively taking in the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, his height, the length of his long legs. In severe black, contrasting strongly with the pristine white of cravat and shirt, he seemed to tower over her even more than usual, making her feel especially delicate, feminine, and vulnerable.

  Geoffrey cleared his throat, mumbled some comment, and left them; their gazes locked, neither glanced his way.

  Slowly, she smiled. “Are you going to tell me I look fetching and elegant?”

  His lips lifted, but his blue eyes remained intent, deadly serious. “No. To me you look… superb.”

  He invested the word with a meaning far beyond the visual. And she suddenly felt superb, as glowing, captivating, and desirable as his inflection painted her. She drew breath; an extra, unusual, novel confidence welled and filled her. “Thank you.” She inclined her head, half turned toward the door. “I must greet the guests.”

  He offered his arm. “You can introduce me to those I’ve not yet met.

  She hesitated, looked up and met his gaze. Recalled her determination not ever again to act as hostess for any man. She heard voices on the stairs; any minute the guests would appear. And if they saw her standing there with him… ?

  If they saw him standing by her side at the door… ?

  Either way, he would be seen to have taken a position with respect to her, one no other man had succeeded in attaining.

  Which was true; he did, indeed, hold that position. He meant something to her, more than a mere acquaintance, more, even, than a friend.

  Inclining her head, she slid her hand onto his sleeve and let him lead her to stand by the door. He’d said he wouldn’t attempt to maneuver her into marriage, and she trusted him in that. Indeed, the dinner guests were primarily foreigners with no real influence within the ton.

  As for the idea that people would see him as her lover… she viewed that prospect not just with equanimity, but with a subtle thrill very close to happiness.

  Ferdinand, however, was one of the first to appear. He took one look at Michael and very nearly scowled. Luckily, with more guests arriving, he had to move on; he was quickly swallowed up into the general conversation as those who were staying at Bramshaw House overnight as well as those selected others who’d been invited for dinner before the ball rolled in.

  From that moment on, she had barely an instant to call her own, and certainly not one second to think of anything personal. She discovered it was useful h
aving Michael by her side; he was far more at home in this milieu than Geoffrey and could be relied on to recognize potentially difficult situations and handle them with suitable tact.

  They made a very good team; she was conscious of that, knew he was, too, yet instead of making her uneasy, each shared, appreciative glance filled her with a sense of achievement, of satisfaction.

  Of Tightness.

  She didn’t have time to dwell on it; the dinner—ensuring all went as it should while keeping the conversation sparkling—claimed all her attention. It passed off well, without a hitch, and then the party was repairing to the ballroom. She’d timed it nicely; the dinner guests just had time to admire the floral theme and take note of the garlanded terrace with the lawns and walks beyond lit by lanterns, and the marquee with chairs and tables set ready for supper, before the first stir beyond the ballroom doors.

  All was as it should be as the ball guests strolled in.

  Michael returned to stand by Caro’s side as, with Geoffrey, she greeted the incoming guests. She flicked him a glance, but made no direct comment, simply guided the newcomers his way, ensuring he had a chance to exchange a few words with everyone attending. As this group was primarily locals, none read anything into the arrangement. Geoffrey was the past Member, Caro his sister, and Michael the present Member; to them, all seemed as it should be.

  As the tide slowed to a trickle, Michael touched Caro’s arm; with his eyes, he indicated the Russian delegation, presently in the restraining company of Gerhardt Kosminsky. He pressed her arm, then left her, strolling through the crowd, stopping here and there to exchange compliments and comments, to eventually come up with the Russians and relieve Kosminsky. He and Kosminsky had agreed that one or other should keep the Russians in view, at least until the general bonhomie of the ball took hold.

  Nodding to the senior Russian, Orlov, Michael resigned himself to playing his part; aside from all else, his selfless service would put him in Caro’s good graces. Given his plans for later that evening, that wouldn’t hurt.