The Ideal Bride

  They descended the steps and set off across the lawn. Head up, she walked as fast as she reasonably could. “I daresay Geoffrey will be back by now—”

  “Caro.”

  The single word held a wealth of, not just feeling, but beguiling promise.

  Her heart leapt to her throat; determinedly, she swallowed it. The man was a consummate politician—she shouldn’t forget that. “Please—spare me your sympathy.”

  “No.”

  She halted, turned to stare at him. “What?”

  He met her eyes. “No, I won’t spare you—I fully intend to teach you.” His lips curved; his gaze dropped to hers. “You’re perfectly teachable, you know.”

  “No, I’m not, and anyway…”

  “Anyway what?

  “Never mind.”

  He laughed. “But I do mind. And I am going to teach you. To kiss, and more.”

  She humphed, shot him another, more dire, warning glance, and walked on even faster. Muttered beneath her breath. “Damn presumptuous male.”

  “What was that?” He strolled patiently beside her.

  “I told you—never mind.”

  On reaching the house, she discovered Geoffrey had just returned; with immense relief, she all but bundled Michael into his presence and escaped.

  To her room. To sink down on her bed and try to work out what had happened. That Michael had kissed her—that he’d wanted to and managed to—was strange enough, but why had she kissed him back?

  Mortification washed over her; rising, she went to the washstand, poured cold water from the ewer into the basin, and washed her warm face. Patting her cheeks dry, she remembered, heard again his gently amused tone. He’d said he’d teach her, but he wouldn’t of course. He’d only said that to gloss over the awkward moment.

  She returned to the bed, sinking down on the edge. Her pulse was still galloping, her nerves in a tangle, yet the knot was not one she recognized.

  The shadows progressed across the floor while she tried to make sense of what had occurred, and even more what she’d felt.

  When the gong for luncheon rang through the house, she blinked and looked up—in the mirror of her dressing table across the room, she saw her face, her expression soft, her fingers lightly tracing her lips.

  With a muttered curse, she lowered her hand, stood, shook out her skirts, and headed for the door.

  7

  She would avoid him henceforth; it was the only viable solution. She certainly was not going to spend her time imagining what learning to kiss under his tutelage would be like.

  She had a ball to organize and lots of guests to house—more than enough to keep her busy.

  And that evening she had a dinner to attend at Leadbetter Hall, where the Portuguese delegation was spending the summer.

  Leadbetter Hall was near Lyndhurst. The invitation had not included Edward; in the circumstances, that wasn’t surprising. She’d ordered the carriage for seven-thirty; a few minutes past the appointed time, she left her room suitably gowned and coiffed, her rose magenta silk gown draped to perfection, cut to make the most of her less-than-impressive bosom. A long strand of pearls interspersed with amethysts circled her throat once before hanging to her waist. Pearl and amethyst drops dangled from her ears; the same jewels adorned the gold filigree comb that anchored the mass of her unruly hair.

  That hair, thick, springy, and all but impossible to tame—to make conform to any fashionable style—had been the bane of her existence until a supremely haughty but well-disposed archduchess had advised her to stop trying to fight a battle destined to be lost, and instead embrace the inevitable as a mark of individuality.

  The ascerbic recommendation had not immediately changed her view, but gradually she’d realized that the person most bothered by her hair was herself, and if she stopped agonizing over it and instead took its oddity in her stride—even embraced it as the archduchess had suggested—then others were, indeed, inclined to see it simply as a part of her uniqueness.

  Now, if truth be told, the relative uniqueness of her appearance buoyed her; the individuality was something she clung to. Gliding to the stairs, hearing her skirts sussurating about her, reassured that she looked well, she put a gloved hand to the balustrade and started down.

  Her gaze lowered to the front hall, to where Catten stood waiting to open the front door. Serenely, she glided down the last flight—a well-shaped head of dark brown locks atop a pair of broad shoulders, elegantly clad, came into view in the corridor running alongside the stairs. Then Michael turned, looked up, and saw her.

  She slowed; taking in his attire, she inwardly cursed. But there was nothing she could do; returning his smile, she continued her descent. He strolled to the bottom of the stairs to meet her, offered his hand as she neared.

  “Good evening.” She kept her smile plastered in place as she surrendered her fingers to his strong clasp. “I take it you, too, have been invited to dine at Leadbetter Hall?”

  His eyes held hers. “Indeed. I thought, in the circumstances, I might share your carriage.”

  Geoffrey had followed Michael from the study. “An excellent idea, especially with those scoundrels who attacked Miss Trice still at large.”

  She raised her brows. “I hardly think they’d attack a carriage.”

  “Who’s to say?” Geoffrey exchanged a distinctly masculine glance with Michael. “Regardless, it’s only sensible that Michael escort you.”

  That, unfortunately, was impossible to argue. Resigning herself to the inevitable—and really, despite the silly expectation tightening her nerves, what had she to fear?—she smiled diplomatically and inclined her head. “Indeed.” She lifted a brow at Michael. “Are you ready?”

  He met her gaze, smiled. “Yes.” Drawing her to his side, he laid her hand on his sleeve. “Come—let’s away.”

  Lifting her head, drawing in a deep breath, ignoring the tension that had escalated dramatically now he’d moved so close, she regally nodded to Geoffrey and consented to be led to the waiting carriage.

  Michael handed her up, then followed. He sat on the seat opposite her, watching while she fussed with her skirts, then straightened her silver-spangled shawl. The footman shut the door; the carriage lurched, then rolled off. He caught Caro’s eye. “Have you any idea who else will be present tonight?”

  Her brows rose. “Yes, and no.”

  He listened while she listed those she knew would be present, digressing to give him a potted history of the sort of information most useful for him to know, then elaborating on those she suspected might also have been summoned to sup with the Portuguese.

  Sitting back in the shadows of the carriage, lips curving, he wondered if she was even conscious of her performance—the exact response he would have wished for from his wife. Her knowledge was wide, her grasp of what he most needed to know superior; while the carriage rumbled along the leafy lanes, he continued to question, to encourage her to interact with him both as he wished, and also in the manner with which she was most comfortable.

  That last was his real goal. While her information would certainly be of help, his primary aim was to put her at her ease. To encourage her to focus on the diplomatic milieu to which she was so accustomed, and in which she was a consummate participant.

  Time enough to engage with her more personally later, on their way home.

  Aware that on the return journey she’d be in a much more approachable mood, one more amenable to his intentions, if she’d passed a pleasant evening to that point, he set out to, as far as he was able, ensure her enjoyment of the night.

  They reached Leadbetter Hall in good time, alighting before the steps leading up to imposing doors. He escorted her through the doors to where the duchess and countess stood waiting just inside the high-ceilinged front hall.

  The ladies exchanged greetings, complimenting each other on their toilettes, then the duchess turned to him. “We are delighted to receive you, Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby. It is our hope that we will do so many m
ore times in the coming years.”

  Straightening from his bow, he replied with easy assurance, sensing Caro’s gaze on his face; turning from greeting the countess, he caught her approving glance.

  Almost as if she were starting to view him as a protégé…he hid the true tenor of his smile. With his customary elegant confidence, he took her arm and steered her into the drawing room.

  They paused on the threshold, glancing swiftly around, getting their bearings. There was a brief hiatus in the hum of conversations as those already there turned to look, then people smiled and returned to their discussions.

  He glanced at Caro; arrow-straight beside him, she all but vibrated with pleasurable expectation. Confidence, assurance, and serenity, all were there in her face, in her expression, in her stance. His gaze drifted over her, surreptitously drank her in; he again felt a surge of primitive emotion, a simple possessiveness.

  She was the wife he needed, and intended to have.

  Recalling his plan, he turned her toward the fireplace. “The duke and count first, I think?”

  She nodded. “Indubitably.”

  It was simple enough to remain by her side as they circled the drawing room, stopping by each knot of guests, exchanging introductions and greetings. His memory was almost as good as Caro’s; she’d been right in predicting the presence of most of those there. Those she hadn’t foreseen included two gentlemen from the Foreign Office and one from the Board of Trade, along with their wives. All three men instantly recognized him; each found a moment to stop by his side and explain his connection with the duke and the count, and the still-absent ambassador.

  Turning back to the group with whom he and Caro were engaged, Michael discovered that Ferdinand Leponte had insinuated himself into the circle on Caro’s other side.

  “Leponte.” He and the Portuguese exchanged nods—polite but, on Leponte’s part, suspicious and assessing. Having already taken Ferdinand’s measure, he resigned himself to, at least outwardly, ignoring the Portuguese’s attempts to—why mince words?—seduce his intended bride.

  Creating a diplomatic incident would not endear him to the Prime Minister. Besides, Caro’s formidable reputation—the one Ferdinand had yet to properly comprehend—was clear proof that she was unlikely to need any help in seeing the Portuguese off. Better men had tried and fallen at her gates.

  While chatting with the Polish chargé d’affaires, from the corner of his eye Michael watched Ferdinand deploy what he had to admit was considerable charm attempting to draw Caro away from him; her hand still rested on his arm. He was acutely aware of the weight of her fingers; they didn’t shift, flicker, or grip, just remained steadfastly where they were. From what he caught of their exchanges, the Portuguese was making little headway.

  Ferdinand: “Your eyes, dear Caro, are silver moons in the heaven of your face.”

  Caro, brows rising: “Really? Two moons. How strange.”

  There was just the right ripple of amusement in her tone to totally depress any loverlike pretensions Ferdinand was nursing. Glancing his way, Michael saw irritation flash fleetingly through Ferdinand’s dark eyes, a fractional downward tightening of his mobile mouth before his charming mask re-formed, and he rattled in once more, tilting at Caro’s walls.

  Michael could have informed him that such an approach was pointless. It was necessary to take Caro by surprise and so get inside her defenses; once up, in place, guarding her virtue—why, in her circumstances, her virtue required such vigilant preservation he hadn’t yet divined—those defenses were virtually impossible to shake. Certainly not in any social setting. They’d been forged, tested, and perfected in what must have been a highly exacting arena.

  Returning to his conversation with the chargé d’affaires, he confirmed that Mr. Kosminsky would, indeed, be attending Caro’s ball and was willing to assist in ensuring said ball was not marred by any unhappy occurrence.

  The diminuitive Pole puffed out his chest. “It will be an honor to serve in protecting Mrs. Sutcliffe’s peace of mind.”

  Hearing her name, Caro grasped the opportunity to turn to Kosminsky. She smiled, and the little man glowed. “Thank you. I know it’s an imposition of sorts, yet—”

  She glibly bound Kosminsky to be her willing slave, at least as far as keeping her ball trouble-free.

  Standing between them, Michael silently appreciated her performance, then he glanced at Ferdinand and once again caught a glimpse of chagrin. He realized that Leponte, viewing him as a rival for Caro’s favors, wasn’t bothering to hide his aggravation at her dismissiveness from him.

  Leponte was, however, being careful to hide his reaction from Caro.

  The realization sharpened Michael’s attention. From the corner of his eye, he watched Ferdinand consider Caro measuringly. There was an intensity in that assessment that did not fit the mold of a holidaying foreign diplomat looking for a little diversion in the bucolic bliss of the English countryside.

  Caro threw a comment his way; smiling easily, with practiced facility he resumed his part in the discussion.

  Yet some part of him remained alert, focused on Ferdinand.

  Dinner was announced. The guests paired up and strolled into the large dining room. Michael found himself seated near the duke and count; Portugal had for centuries been one of England’s closest allies—those gentlemen’s interest in learning his stance on various issues and educating him as to theirs was entirely understandable.

  Less understandable was Caro’s placement—at the far end of the table, separated from the duchess by Ferdinand, with an ancient Portuguese admiral on her other side and the countess opposite. Although at least a third of those present were English, there were no compatriots near her.

  Not, of course, that such a situation would bother her.

  It did bother him.

  Caro was aware of the peculiarity of her placement. If Camden had been alive and she’d been attending with him, then the position was correct, seating her with the other senior diplomats’ wives. However…

  She wondered, fleetingly, whether her appearing on Michael’s arm and remaining by his side in the drawing room had given rise to an inaccurate assumption; considering the duchess’s and countess’s experience, she jettisoned that explanation. If they’d suspected any pending connection between her and Michael, one or the other would have quietly inquired. Neither had, which meant she was seated where she was for some other purpose; while she smiled and chatted and the courses came and went, she wondered what that might be.

  On her right, Ferdinand was charmingly attentive. On her left, old Admiral Pilocet snoozed, waking only to peer at the dishes as each course was set out before succumbing to slumber once more.

  “My dear Caro, you must try some of these mussels.”

  Returning her attention to Ferdinand, she consented to be served with a concoction of mussels and shallots in herb broth.

  “They are English mussels, of course,” Ferdinand gestured with his fork, “but the dish is from Albufeira—my home.”

  Increasingly intrigued by his persistence, she decided to let herself be drawn. “Indeed?” Skewering a mussel on the tines of her fork, she considered it, then glanced at Ferdinand. “Do I take it you live near your uncle and aunt?” She popped the morsel into her mouth and watched his gaze lock on her lips.

  He blinked. “Ah…” His eyes returned to hers. “Yes.” He nodded and looked down at his plate. “We all—my parents and cousins and my other uncles and aunts—live at the castelo there.” He turned his brilliantly charming smile on her. “It is built on the cliffs overlooking the sea.” He looked soulfully into her eyes. “You should visit with us there—Portugal has been too long without your fair presence.”

  She laughed. “I greatly fear Portugal will have to grin and bear my absence. I have no plans to leave England’s shores in the foreseeable future.”

  “Ah, no!” Ferdinand’s features reflected dramatic pain. “It is a loss, at least in our little corner of the world.” r />
  She smiled and finished the last of her mussels.

  Their plates were cleared. Ferdinand leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We all understand, of course, that you were devoted to Ambassador Sutcliffe, and even now revere his memory.”

  He paused, watching closely. Her smile in place, she reached for her wineglass, raised it to her lips; as she sipped, she met his dark eyes. “Indeed.”

  She wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss Ferdinand and his by-English-standards histrionic behavior. He was probing, searching—for what she had no clue. But while he was good, she was better. She gave him no inkling of her true feelings and waited to see where he would go.

  He cast his eyes down, feigning…shyness? “I have long harbored a regard bordering on fascination for Sutcliffe—he was the consummate diplomat. There is so much that can be learned from a study of his life—his successes, his strategies.”

  “Really?” She looked mildly bemused, although he wasn’t the first to take that tack.

  “But yes! Just think of his first actions on taking up his post in Lisbon, when he—”

  The next course was set before them. Ferdinand continued to expound on the highlights of Camden’s career. Content to have him thus occupied, she encouraged him; he was extremely well informed of the catalog of her late husband’s actions.

  By judiciously adding her own observations, she extended the discussion over the rest of the courses; Ferdinand looked up, slightly surprised when the duchess rose to lead the ladies from the room.

  In the drawing room, the duchess and countess claimed her attention.

  “Is it always this warm during your summer?” The duchess languidly waved her fan.

  Caro smiled. “Actually, it’s quite mild this year. Is this your first visit to England?”

  The slow beat of the fan faltered, then resumed. “Yes, it is.” The duchess met her eyes and smiled. “We have spent much of the last years with the embassies in Scandanavia.”

  “Ah—no wonder the weather here seems warm to you, then.”