The Ideal Bride c-12

by Stephanie Laurens

  Angry with herself, angry with Michael.

  She should have foreseen his direction. She’d deliberately displayed her highly developed social skills in order to demonstrate Elizabeth’s relative lack thereof, so he’d turned his eye from Elizabeth—and fixed it on her!

  Damn presumptuous male! Why couldn’t he have simply wanted to… to… to have an affair and all that entailed? Wasn’t she—?

  She cut off the thought; she had good reason to know she wasn’t the sort of female who inspired men to lust—not real, basic, raw, cannot-do-without-absolutely-must-have lust, only the sort encouraged by other motives, other wants. Like needing an experienced hostess, or an exceptionally well-trained diplomatic bride!

  She seemed destined always to be chosen, never wanted. Never truly desired.

  And for that—because for the first time in her life Michael had had her believing otherwise—she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him.

  Jabbing her needle into the canvas, she fought to calm her nerves.

  Apprehension snaked through her; she was very much aware that unless and until he gave up all thought of marrying her she was in danger—more danger than Elizabeth had ever been in.

  She’d saved Elizabeth from a loveless political union, but there was no one to save her. If Michael made a formal offer, for the same reasons that would have applied in Elizabeth’s case, it would be even more difficult for her to refuse. As a widow, theoretically she was in charge of her own life, yet she’d lived too long among her peers not to acknowledge that practically speaking, that wasn’t so. If she accepted him, everyone would smile and congratulate her; if she sought to refuse him…

  Contemplating the likely outcome did nothing to calm her nerves.

  She was sorting through her silks when she heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. Bootsteps—not Geoffrey’s ambling stride but a definite, determined one… her senses leapt. She looked up— just as Michael, attired for riding, appeared in the doorway.

  He saw her, briefly glanced at Elizabeth and Edward, who’d looked up in surprise. Without breaking his stride, he directed a nod their way and continued across the room. To her.

  She hurriedly gathered her embroidery; he barely gave her time to set it aside before he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet.

  He met her gaze. “We need to talk.”

  One glance into his eyes, at his set and determined expression, told her arguing was pointless. The way he turned and headed for the door, her hand gripped uncompromisingly tightly in his, underscored that conclusion.

  He barely glanced at Edward and Elizabeth. “Do excuse us—we have matters to discuss.”

  They were out of the room and he was pacing along the corridor before she’d done more than blink. He was striding too fast; she yanked back on his hand. He flicked her a glance and slowed—a fraction—but his determined progress didn’t stop. Reaching the garden door, he whisked her through. And continued on down the path.

  “Where are we going?” She glanced back at the house.

  “Where we won’t be disturbed.‘

  She looked at him. “And where’s that?”

  He didn’t reply, but then they reached the end of the path and he set off across the lawn, and she had her answer. The summerhouse.

  She pulled back on his hand. “If Elizabeth and Edward look out of the window, they’ll see us.”

  “Will they be able to see us once we’re inside?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then why are you arguing?” He glanced at her; his gaze was hard. “We have unfinished business and that’s the obvious place to conclude it. If, however, you’d rather we pursued our ‘discussion’ in the middle of the lawn… ?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. Looked ahead at the summerhouse, rapidly nearing. Muttered sotto voce, “Damn presumptuous male!”

  “What was that?”

  “Never mind!” She waved toward the summerhouse. “In there, then, if you’re so set on it.”

  Lifting her skirts, she climbed the steps beside him. If he was annoyed, as he seemed to be, then she was even more so. She’d never been one to brangle, but in this case she’d make an exception.

  Her heels tapped imperiously as she and Michael crossed the wooden floor, heading to where they’d stood last night.

  He stopped two yards from the bench, whirled her to face him, released her hand, raised his and framed her face—and kissed her.

  Witless.

  It was an assault plain and simple, but one her greedy senses leapt to meet; she grabbed hold of his coat to steady herself, to anchor herself in the giddy melee, the whirlpool of desire—hungry, ravenous, and hot—that he unleashed and sent raging. Through them both.

  She drank it in, gasping as her senses exulted. As a hunger of her own rose in response.

  He deepened the kiss and she was with him, mouths melding, tongues tangling, almost desperate in their need to touch, to take—to be with the other like this, on this otherworldly plane.

  Michael knew he had her, that this at least she couldn’t deny. Spreading the fingers of one hand, he speared them deeper into the fine, frizzy wonder of her hair, holding her head steady while he ravaged her mouth; his other hand he sent sliding about her waist, then he drew her to him, steady inch by inch, until she was locked against him.

  The contact, breasts to chest, hips to thighs, eased one facet of his driving need, only to escalate another. Determinedly, he reined it in, promising himself that it wouldn’t be for long.

  It took effort to draw back, eventually to break the kiss, raise his head, and say, “That unfinished business… ?”

  Her lashes fluttered; her lids rose. It took a moment—a moment he savored—before understanding swam into her eyes. She refocused on his, studied his face. “What did you want to discuss?‘

  He held her gaze. He had to get it right, had to walk a tightrope and not overbalance. “You said if you could choose, you’d choose an affair.” He paused, then continued, his tone hardening, “If that’s all you’re offering, I’ll take it.”

  Her eyes narrowed fractionally; she was practiced at hiding her emotions—he couldn’t see past the beaten silver of her eyes. “You mean you’ll forget all about marrying me, and we can just…”

  “Be lovers. If that’s what you wish”—he shrugged lightly—“so be it.”

  Again, he sensed rather than saw her suspicions. “You need to marry, but you accept I won’t be your bride? You won’t press me—won’t make an offer, or talk to Geoffrey or anyone else?”

  He shook his head. “No offer, no maneuvering. However”—he caught the flash of cynical disbelief in her eyes, had already decided how to counter it—“just so we understand each other completely, beyond misconstruction, if you change your mind at any time, I remain perfectly willing to marry you.”

  She frowned; holding her gaze, he went on, “My proposal stands— it stays on the table between us, but between us alone. If at any time you decide you wish to accept it, all you need do is say so. The decision’s yours, totally in your hands, yours alone to make.”

  Caro understood what he was saying, understood not only the meaning of the words but the decision behind them. She felt mentally rocked; again the ground had shifted beneath her feet. This was something she hadn’t, never would have, expected. She could barely take it in. Yet…

  “Why?” She had to ask, had to know.

  He held her gaze steadily, unwaveringly; his expression, hard, determined, if anything grew harder. “If setting aside my wish to marry you is the only way I’ll get you into my bed, then I’ll do it—even that.”

  She knew truth when she heard it; his words held its ring. He knew what he was saying, and meant every word.

  Her heart stilled, then swelled, soared… the impossible seemed possible again.

  Captured by the prospect, by the sudden blossoming of hope, she paused. He raised an impatient brow. “Well?” She refocused and he baldly asked, “Will you have an aff
air with me?”

  Trapped in the blue of his eyes, she again felt as if her world had tilted. Opportunity beckoned; fate tempted her not only with her most closely held dreams but also with her most deeply felt fears—and the chance to vanquish them. Fears that had held her in their cold, dead grip for the past eleven years, fears she’d never before believed she might challenge… not until the last few days.

  Not until he’d come into her life and made her feel alive. Made her feel desired.

  She felt giddy; a faint buzzing filled her ears. Over it, she heard herself say, quite distinctly, “Yes.”

  Two heartbeats passed, then she stepped toward him. He reached for her; hands slid—his about her waist, hers over his shoulders. He bent his head; she stretched up—

  “Caro!”

  Edward. They froze.

  “Caro?” He was on the lawn, heading their way.

  Michael exhaled through clenched teeth. “Campbell better have a damn good reason for calling you.”

  “He will have.”

  They stepped apart, turned to cross to the entrance; they were still within the summerhouse’s shadows when Michael, close behind her, leaned down and whispered, “One thing.” His hands closed about her waist, slowing her—reminding her he could draw her back if he wished. “We’re now having an affair, so when I say ‘Come with me,’ you’ll do just that, without argument. Agreed?”

  If she wanted to go forward and learn what truly was possible between them, she had no real choice. She nodded. “Agreed.”

  His hands fell from her; he was at her heels as she hurried to the top of the steps.

  “Caro?” Edward reached the steps as they appeared at the top. “Oh—there you are.”

  “What’s happened?” Lifting her skirts, she went quickly down.

  Edward glanced at Michael, following her, grimaced and looked back at her. “George Sutcliffe’s here with Muriel Hedderwick. They’re asking for you—it seems there was a burglary at Sutclif fe Hall last night.

  They hurried to the drawing room where George, Camden’s younger brother, sat waiting in an armchair.

  Where Camden had been handsome to the grave, George, considerably his junior, about sixty now, had never laid claim to that adjective. He was not as clever as Camden, either. As the brothers had grown older, they’d grown less and less alike; there remained a superficial physical resemblance, but otherwise two more different men would be hard to imagine. George was now a dour, reclusive, rather cheerless widower; his only interests seemed to lie in his acres, and in his two sons and their sons.

  Camden had died without heirs, so Sutcliffe Hall had passed to George. His elder son, David, and his wife and young family lived there, too; it was a large, classically impressive but rather cold house. Although no longer residing there, Muriel, George’s daughter, still considered the Hall her real home; it was no surprise that she was present.

  George looked up as Caro entered. He nodded. “Caro.” He started to struggle up; she smiled, welcoming and reassuring, and waved him back.

  “George.” Pausing by his chair, she pressed his hand warmly, then nodded to Muriel, perched on the chaise. “Muriel.”

  While George and Muriel exchanged greetings with Michael, Caro joined Muriel on the chaise. Edward retreated to stand by the wall. As Michael lifted a straight-backed chair to join the circle, Caro fixed her gaze on George. “Edward mentioned a burglary—what’s happened?‘

  “Sometime last night, under cover of the storm, someone broke into the sitting room at the end of the west wing.”

  During Camden’s lifetime, the rooms in the west wing had been his, left untouched while he was absent, always ready for the few scattered weeks when he returned to his home. Suppressing a frown, Caro listened while George recounted how his grandsons had discovered a forced window, and described the signs that suggested whoever had entered had searched the rooms thoroughly. However, as far as they could tell, only a few knickknacks, none valuable, had been taken.

  Muriel broke in. “They must have been after something of Camden’s, something he’d left there.”

  George snorted. “More likely passing vagabonds—came in looking for shelter and picked the place over while they were about it. No seri-ous harm done, but I did wonder if it might have been those two who attacked Miss Trice.” He looked at Geoffrey. “Thought I’d put you on your guard.”

  Caro glanced at Michael.

  Muriel all but snorted. “I think it most likely was something of Camden’s they were after—that’s why I insisted we see you.” She appealed to Caro. “What of his things left at the Hall would be of interest to others?”

  Looking into Muriel’s dark, slightly protruberant eyes, Caro wondered if she’d heard of Ferdinand’s interest. “No,” she said, her tone leaving no scope for argument. “There’s nothing of Camden’s, nothing valuable, left at the Hall.”

  She glanced at Edward, wordlessly warning him not to support or elaborate. Camden had never viewed the Hall, buried in rural Hampshire, as any real base of his. She and Edward knew her statement was absolutely true, but it was a truth few others were likely to know or guess. Muriel clearly hadn’t; it would hardly be surprising if Ferdinand believed Camden’s personal papers remained in his rooms at the Hall, his ancestral home.

  Muriel frowned, unhappy with her answer, yet with little choice but to grudgingly accept it.

  Caro had Edward ring for tea. Over their cups, George, Michael, and Geoffrey discussed crops, weather, and yields; she determinedly steered Muriel’s thoughts to the fete, inquiring as to the numerous stalls, refreshments, and entertainments that were all coming together under Muriel’s eagle eye.

  Tea consumed, Muriel and George took their leave. Geoffrey retreated to his study; Caro, with Michael and Edward in train, made for the parlor.

  Elizabeth had had her own tea tray brought in; she set down her cup and the novel she’d been reading as Caro entered. “I heard Muriel’s voice.” She grimaced. “I assumed if you needed me, you’d send for me.”

  Caro waved. “Of course.” She sat on the chaise, fixed her gaze on Michael as he lounged in the armchair opposite; Edward perched on the arm of the other chair. “Those two weaselly men we saw Ferdinand speaking with in the forest. Do you think…?”

  Edward frowned. “What two men?”

  Michael explained. Edward shot a concerned glance at Caro. “You think Ferdinand hired them to burgle Sutcliffe Hall?”

  “I think,” Michael broke in decisively, “that we’re getting ahead of ourselves. While I agree that Ferdinand, with his sudden interest in Camden’s papers, having a clandestine meeting with two men whom neither Caro nor I recognized but who certainly looked like thieves, and Sutcliffe Hall being burgled two nights later, is suggestive, it’s hardly proof. Indeed, it could have been as George suggested—vagabonds seeking shelter from the storm.”

  He looked at Caro. “The end of the Hall’s west wing is the most isolated part of the house, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Camden liked it for that reason—the others in the house didn’t disturb him.”

  “Exactly. And the forest encroaches on that side, so if any vagabonds were looking for a refuge, it’s the most likely place they’d enter.”

  Caro pulled a face. “You’re saying it could just be coincidence.”

  He nodded. “I’m hardly a Leponte supporter, but there’s insufficient evidence to charge the break-in to his account.”

  “But we can keep a closer eye on him.” Edward’s tone had hardened.

  Michael met his gaze. “Indeed. Regardless of our lack of proof in this instance, I definitely think that would be wise.”

  Michael and Edward spent the next half hour discussing possibilities; they settled on alerting the Bramshaw House staff to watch for any intruders, citing the burglary at Sutcliffe Hall as the cause of their concern.

  “Leadbetter Hall is too far away to mount a meaningful watch directly on Leponte.” Michael grimaced. “And with the fete
and the ball in the offing, there are too many easily constructed reasons for him to be out and about around Bramshaw anyway. Short of alerting half the county, there’s not much more we can do.”

  Edward nodded. “The ball will be his best chance to search here, don’t you think?”

  “Yes—we’ll have to make sure he’s watched at all times.”

  Caro listened, agreed when appealed to, but otherwise held her tongue; she had enough to do organizing her ball without worrying about Ferdinand. Besides, it was clear she could leave that to Michael and Edward.

  The sun was sinking behind the trees when Michael rose. She rose, too, watched while he took his leave of Elizabeth and Edward; when he turned to her, she gave him her hand and an easy smile. “Good-bye.”

  Discussion of the ball had reminded her just how much there was yet to do, to organize, supervise, and manage. Regardless of their decision to embark on an affair, she did not need further distraction just now.

  He held her hand, held her gaze, then raised her fingers and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “I’ll call on you tomorrow afternoon.”

  She turned with him to the door; he still held her fingers. “Tomorrow will be very busy.” She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “There’s a great deal we have to do with both the preparations for the ball and our contribution to the fete.”

  Pausing at the door, he looked down at her. “Nevertheless, I’ll be here midafternoon.” The words were a promise, underscored by the weight of his gaze. He again raised her fingers; his eyes on hers, he kissed them, then released her. “Look for me then.”

  With a nod and that same intent look, he left.

  She stood in the doorway listening to his retreating footsteps, and wondered… in agreeing to an affair, just what had she agreed to?

  The question resonated in her mind the following afternoon when she stood on the terrace, hands on her hips, and glared at Michael.

  She opened her mouth—

  He pointed a finger at her nose. “Without argument. Remember?”

  She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss through teeth unbecomingly clenched. “I—”