The Ideal Bride c-12

by Stephanie Laurens

  Edward glanced around and saw her. He beckoned urgently.

  Both she and Ferdinand hurried across.

  “There, there.” One of the Driscoll girls murmured. “Here, take my handkerchief.”

  “You poor thing—how dreadful.” Seeing Caro approaching, the other sister stepped back.

  Edward looked grim as he quickly stepped in, taking the arm of the wilting figure slumped over the rail.

  “Oohhhh,” Elizabeth moaned, a sound of abject misery. Michael, on her other side, was supporting most of her weight.

  Edward cast a speaking glance at Caro; she stared back at him. They hadn’t thought…

  She blinked. Turned to Ferdinand. “Do you have a cabin—some place she can lie down?”

  “Of course.” Ferdinand squeezed her shoulder. “I will have it prepared.”

  “Wait!” Michael turned his head and spoke to Ferdinand. “Tell your captain to turn around. We’re now in the Solent—he needs to get back into calmer waters, and closer to shore.”

  Caro realized the ride had become considerably more choppy; used to tipping decks—this was mild compared to the Atlantic—she hadn’t truly noticed when they’d emerged from the relatively protected reaches of Southampton Water and heeled southwest into the Solent.

  Glancing at the limp figure Michael was holding upright, Ferdinand nodded curtly and left. On the way to the wheel, he called orders to one of his crew; the sailor scurried to open the doors to the companionway leading to the lower deck. Looking Caro’s way, he beckoned, called “Come, come” in Portuguese, then disappeared down the steep stairs.

  Caro exchanged glances with Michael and Edward, then moved to the rail, taking Edward’s place; stroking Elizabeth’s back, she tried to look into her face. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll get you downstairs. Once you’re lying down, you won’t feel so poorly.”

  Elizabeth gulped in air, tried to speak, then weakly shook her head and moaned again.

  She slumped even lower. Michael tightened his hold. “She’s close to fainting. Here—stand back.”

  He stooped, then lifted Elizabeth into his arms. He settled her, then nodded at Caro. “Lead the way. You’re right—she needs to be horizontal.‘

  Getting Elizabeth—who truly was as good as unconscious—down the narrow stairs was no easy feat. With help from Caro and Edward, Michael managed it; once he gained the lower deck, Caro looked past him and called to Edward, who’d been helping from behind. “Cold water, a bowl, and some cloths.”

  Grim-faced, Edward nodded. “I’ll get them.”

  Caro turned and hurried ahead to hold the door to the stern cabin open. Michael angled his awkward burden through, then walked to the bunk bed the sailor had hurriedly made up, and laid Elizabeth down.

  She moaned again. She was whiter than the proverbial sheet—her fine skin looked almost green.

  “She lost her breakfast over the rail.” Michael stepped back, met Caro’s worried eyes. “Is there anything else you need?”

  She bit her lip, then shook her head. “Not at present—just that water.”

  He nodded and turned for the door. “Call me when she wants to come up again—she won’t be able to manage the stairs without help.”

  Distractedly, Caro murmured her thanks. Leaning over Elizabeth, she brushed tendrils of damp hair off her forehead. She heard the door softly close; glancing around, she confirmed the sailor had left, too. Gently, she folded Elizabeth’s forearm over her chest.

  Elizabeth moaned again. “It’s all right, sweetheart—I’m going to loosen your laces.”

  Edward brought the water in an ewer with a basin; Caro met him at the door and took them. “Is she all right?” he asked.

  She will be.“ Caro grimaced. ”It never occurred to me she might be seasick.“

  With a worried glance, Edward left. Caro bathed Elizabeth’s face and hands, then eased her up so she could sip from a glass. She was still very pale, but her skin no longer felt quite so clammy.

  She sank back on the pillows with a sigh and a little shiver.

  “Just sleep.” Unwinding her shawl, Caro draped it over Elizabeth’s shoulders and chest, then brushed the pale curls from her forehead. “I’ll be here.”

  She didn’t need to look out of the portholes set across the stern to know the yacht had heeled and turned. The chop and slap of the Solent’s waters had faded; the hull was once more riding smoothly, slowly gliding back up the estuary.

  Elizabeth dozed. Caro sat in the cabin’s only chair. After a time, she rose and stretched, then crossed to the row of portholes. She studied the catches, then opened one, pushing it wide. A faint breeze drifted in, stirring the stale air in the cabin. She opened two more of the five round windows, then heard a rattle and a great splash.

  Glancing at the narrow bunk, she saw Elizabeth hadn’t stirred. Peering out, she glimpsed the shore. The captain had dropped anchor. Presumably lunch would be served soon.

  She debated, but decided against leaving Elizabeth. With a sigh, she sank back onto the chair.

  Sometime later, a soft tap sounded on the door. Elizabeth slept on; crossing the cabin, Caro opened the door. Michael stood in the corridor holding a tray.

  “Campbell picked out what he thought you and Elizabeth would like. How is she?”

  “Still sleeping.” Caro reached to take the tray.

  Michael gestured her back. “It’s heavy.”

  With her shawl covering her, Elizabeth was decent enough; Caro stepped back. Michael carried the tray to the table; she followed, studying the plates as he set the tray down.

  “Once she wakes, you should try to get her to eat something.”

  She glanced at him, then grimaced. “I’ve never been seasick— have you?‘

  Michael shook his head. “But I’ve seen plenty of others who were. She’ll feel weak and woozy when she awakes. Now that we’re back in calmer waters, eating something will help.”

  Caro nodded, looked back at Elizabeth.

  He hesitated, then said, “Geoffrey’s a trifle queasy, too.”

  Caro turned back to him, eyes widening in concern.

  “That’s why he hasn’t been down to ask about Elizabeth. He’s not as badly affected as she—he’ll be better off in the open air.”

  A frown creased her brow; he suppressed an urge to run his thumb over her forehead and ease it away—squeezed her shoulder lightly instead. “Don’t worry about Geoffrey—Edward and I will keep an eye on him.” With a nod, he indicated Elizabeth. “You’ve enough on your hands.”

  Caro followed his nod, remained looking at Elizabeth. He hesitated, then turned away. As he opened the door, he heard Caro’s soft “Thank you.” Saluting her, he stepped out and softly closed the door.

  Back on the main deck, he joined the other guests around the tables Ferdinand’s crew had set up to display the delicacies of an alfresco meal. He chatted with General Kleber, who’d spent the previous day touring Bucklers Hard, the center of the local shipbuilding industry, then moved on to speak with the duke and the count, furthering his understanding of their country’s views on a number of pertinent trade issues.

  Once the meal was over and the tables cleared away, the ladies gathered behind the forecastle to gossip. Most of the men drifted to the rails, finding spots to lounge and enjoy the sunshine. The breeze, previously brisk, had faded to a gentle zephyr; the soft slap of rippling waves was punctuated by the raucous cries of gulls.

  A postprandial peace settled over the yacht.

  Michael found himself at the stern, for the moment alone. Ferdinand, deprived of Caro’s company, had initially sulked. Now he’d cornered Edward Campbell; the pair were lounging against a capstan. Michael would have wagered a considerable sum that Ferdinand was trying to learn more about Caro via her secretary. In that, he wished him luck; despite his relative youth, Campbell seemed well up to snuff, experienced enough and sufficiently devoted to Caro to ensure he revealed nothing useful.

  Drawing in a breath, filling hi
s lungs with the tangy air, Michael turned his back on the rest of the yacht and leaned on the stern rail. The junction of Southampton Water and the Solent lay some distance away; beyond, the Isle of Wight rose, a silhouette across the horizon.

  “Here—try some of this. It’s quite bland.”

  Caro’s voice. He glanced down, and noticed the open portholes. Elizabeth must be awake.

  “I’m not sure…”

  “Try it—don’t argue. Michael said you should eat, and I’m sure he’s right. You don’t want to swoon again.”

  “Oh, heavens! How on earth am I to face him—or any of them? How mortifying.”

  “Nonsense!” Caro spoke bracingly, but it sounded as if she, too, were eating. “When things like this happen, the correct way to handle it is to create no further fuss. It was unforeseen, nothing could be done to avoid it, it happened, and now it’s over. One deals with it in the most straightforward manner and gives oneself no airs, nor must you appear to be making yourself interesting because of your illness.”

  Silence, punctuated by the clink of cutlery.

  “So…” Elizabeth’s voice seemed to have gained some strength; it sounded almost normal. “I should simply smile and thank people, and…”

  “And put it behind you. Yes, that’s right.”

  “Oh.”

  Another pause; this time, Caro broke it. “You know, being subject to seasickness is not a great recommendation for a diplomat’s wife.”

  Her tone was musing, considering.

  Michael raised his brows. Recalled his earlier suspicion that Caro knew of his interest in Elizabeth.

  “Well, we’ll just have to make sure Edward fixes his sights somewhere other than the Foreign Office.”

  Michael blinked. Edward?

  “Perhaps the Home Office. Or maybe under the Chancellor.”

  He heard Caro shift.

  “We really must give the point some serious thought.”

  Her voice faded as she moved further from the portholes; she and Elizabeth continued to discuss this and that, but he heard nothing more about diplomats’ wives and the requirements and criteria for same.

  Straightening, he strolled to the starboard corner, propped a hip ‘

  against the side, fixed his gaze on the shore, and tried to fathom just what was going on. He’d thought Caro knew of his tack regarding Elizabeth and had been aiding him. Yet clearly she recognized and actively supported a connection between Elizabeth and Campbell.

  He stopped his thoughts—focused on what he felt about Elizabeth being Campbell’s wife instead of his. All he could summon was a mild observation that Elizabeth and Edward might indeed suit.

  Grimacing, he folded his arms and leaned one shoulder against a nearby rope. That, assuredly, was not what he would feel had he been seriously set on winning Elizabeth to wife, if he’d felt convinced she was the wife he needed. He might not be a Cynster, yet if he’d been truly engaged by the desire to secure Elizabeth as his wife, his reaction would be considerably more profound.

  As things stood, he felt far more exercised about Ferdinand’s pursuit of Caro than about Campbell’s apparent success with her niece. That, however, wasn’t what was pricking him.

  Looking back on the last three days, ever since he’d returned home and set out to evaluate Elizabeth—or more specifically from the moment Caro had so dramatically reentered his life—matters had progressed smoothly with no real effort from him; the situations and opportunities he’d needed and wanted had simply appeared.

  Looking back… he felt increasingly certain Caro had been playing fairy godmother, waving her wand and managing the scene, yet her touch was so light, so masterly, it was impossible to be absolutely sure. He had no doubt she was an accomplished player of diplomatic and political games.

  The question was: What sort of game had she been playing with him?

  He might not be a Cynster, but he was an Anstruther-Wetherby. Being manipulated had never sat well with him.

  Once the anchor was hauled in and the yacht was once more slowly tacking up the western shore, at Elizabeth’s insistence Caro left her resting and climbed the narrow companionway back up to the main deck.

  Stepping into the open air, she lifted her head and filled her lungs; lips curving, lids at half-mast against the sinking sun, she turned—and walked into a hard male body.

  One she’d connected with before; even as the certainty over who it was registered, she fleetingly wondered why, with him, her senses sim-P’y seemed to know. More, why they leapt, hungry to experience the solid, powerful strength of him, greedy for his nearness. She’d been sliding her hand onto his arm and stepping close for days—she’d told herself she needed the nearness to capture his attention and direct it, but had that been her only reason?

  She’d certainly never craved close contact with any man before.

  Looking up, she smiled in easy apology. She would have stepped back, but his arm suddenly tightened about her waist, supporting her, gathering her close as if she’d been in danger of falling.

  She gripped his arms. Her heart lurched; her pulse accelerated.

  Eyes widening, she looked into the blue of his—and for one minute couldn’t think, wasn’t truly sure what was going on…

  They were intent, those sky blue eyes of his; they searched hers— she returned the favor. To her surprise, she couldn’t fathom what was passing through his mind.

  Then his lips curved easily; his hold on her slackened and he set her on her feet. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.” She could barely breathe, but smiled her thanks. “I didn’t see you there—the sun was in my eyes.”

  “I was just coming to ask how Elizabeth was.‘’ He waved toward the bow. ”Geoffrey’s growing anxious.“

  “In that case I’d better go and set his mind at rest.” Resisting the urge to claim Michael’s arm, she turned.

  Only to have him offer his arm. Inwardly shrugging, she took it in her usual trusting, close, and confiding way, the way she’d been dealing with him for the past days. Regardless of her susceptibilities, until he definitely lost interest in Elizabeth it would be wise to maintain that level of interaction—the better to steer his perceptions.

  “Has she recovered?”

  They strolled down the deck. “She’s considerably better, but I suspect it’ll be best if she remains in the cabin until we reach the landing stage.” She met his gaze, could read no overt concern there, nothing more than polite inquiry. “If you could lend her your arm then, I know she’ll be grateful.”

  He inclined his head. “Of course.”

  Michael steered her to where the others sat grouped in the lee of the forecastle. For most, the day had gone well—even Geoffrey had enjoyed the outing, his only anxiety being Elizabeth’s well-being. Caro assured everyone Elizabeth was largely recovered, with her usual tact smoothed over the incident, then refocused the conversation away from Elizabeth’s indisposition.

  Leaning against the yacht’s side, he watched her. Wondered. She refused Ferdinand’s offer to stroll about the deck, settling instead between his aunt and the duchess to exchange remininscences of the Portuguese court.

  An hour later, the yacht was tied up at the landing stage. The com-pany disembarked; with expressions of goodwill and thanks all around, they piled into the waiting carriages.

  Elizabeth and Caro were the last of the ladies to attempt the gangplank. Together with Caro and Edward, he went down and helped Elizabeth, still weak but determined to maintain some dignity, up the stairs to the main deck.

  At the head of the gangplank, Elizabeth paused and very prettily thanked Ferdinand, apologizing for the inconvenience she’d caused. Caro stood beside her; waiting behind Caro, Michael noted that the appropriate words came readily to Elizabeth’s tongue. Caro was not tense or expectant; she wasn’t anticipating any need to have to step in and assist.

  Ferdinand bowed and made the best of it, smiling and gallantly waving aside Elizabeth’s apologies,
his dark gaze shifting to Caro’s face as he did.

  Then Edward took Elizabeth’s hand and stepped onto the gangplank; Elizabeth followed unsteadily. Caro stepped aside and let Michael move past her; he followed Elizabeth closely, one hand hovering at her waist, steadying her, ready to catch her if she overbalanced. The tide was in; the rise and fall of the waves at the jetty was greater than it had been that morning.

  Slowly progressing at Elizabeth’s heels, over her shoulder Michael saw Edward’s face every time he glanced at Elizabeth. His concern was open, and clearly personal. Although he couldn’t see Elizabeth’s expression, Michael sensed she clung to Edward’s support far more than his own.

  Any thought that he’d misinterpreted and there wasn’t some definite understanding between the two vanished.

  And if he could see it, Caro certainly had.

  The necessity of his assisting with Elizabeth had left Caro to Ferdinand’s care. When Edward, Elizabeth, then he stepped off the gangplank and onto the jetty, he left Edward to see Elizabeth to the carriage; Geoffrey was already in it. Turning back, he waited at the gangplank’s end, and offered his hand to Caro when she reached him.

  She gripped firmly, using his support as she stepped down to his side; he didn’t wait for her to take his arm but placed her hand on his sleeve and covered it with his as she turned to say her good-byes to Ferdinand.

  Who was clearly irritated at being denied his moment alone with her.

  His eyes met Michael’s, his gaze hard, challenging. But he had to maintain a mask of civility—more, he was given no option but to accept Caro’s definition of him as an amusing acquaintance, nothing more.

  Exactly how she accomplished it, Michael couldn’t have said, yet her decree was there in the tone of her voice, in the light smile she bestowed along with her gracious nod of farewell. Both he and Ferdinand had no difficulty interpreting her message. Ferdinand had to pretend to accept it; he didn’t, however, like it.

  Michael, on the other hand, wholeheartedly approved.

  As he walked with Caro along the landing stage to where their carriage, the last remaining, stood waiting, he wondered if, perhaps, a word in the handsome Portuguese’s ear—a simple gentleman-to-gentleman explanation of the truth behind Caro’s nickname—might not be wise.