The Ideal Bride Read online

  She smiled up at him, clearly delighted; for one instant, he—all of him—stilled.

  The screaming horses abruptly fell silent.

  “Yes. It’s been years since we’ve spoken….” Her gaze grew vague as she cast her mind back.

  “At Camden’s funeral,” he reminded her. Her late husband, Camden Sutcliffe, a legend in diplomatic circles, had been His Majesty’s Ambassador to Portugal; Caro had been Sutcliffe’s third wife.

  She refocused on his face. “You’re right—two years ago.”

  “I haven’t seen you about town.” He had, however, heard of her; the diplomatic corps had dubbed her the Merry Widow. “How are you faring?”

  “Very well, thank you. Camden was a good man and I miss him, but…” She shrugged lightly. “There were more than forty years between us, so it was always going to be this way.”

  The horse shifted, ineffectually dragging the braked gig. Recalled to the present, they both went forward; Caro held the horse’s head while Michael untangled the reins, then checked the harness. He frowned. “What happened?”

  “I have no idea.” Frowning, too, Caro stroked the horse’s nose. “I was coming from a Ladies’ Association meeting at Fordingham.”

  The crisp clop of hooves had them both glancing toward the gates. A gig came trotting smartly through; the large lady driving saw them, waved, then briskly steered the gig toward them.

  “Muriel insisted I attend the meeting—you know how she is.” Caro spoke quickly, beneath the rattle of the gig’s approach. “She offered to drive me, but I decided if I was traveling all that way, I would use the trip to call on Lady Kirkwright. So I drove over early, then attended the meeting, and Muriel and I drove back in tandem.”

  Michael understood all she was telling him. Muriel was Camden’s niece, Caro’s niece-by-marriage, although Muriel was seven years the elder. She, too, had grown up in Bramshaw; unlike the pair of them, Muriel had never left. Born and raised at Sutcliffe Hall at the far end of the village, she now lived in the village center in Hedderwick House, her husband’s residence, a stone’s throw from the drive of Bramshaw House, Caro’s family home.

  More to the point, Muriel had elected herself the organizer of the parish, a role she’d filled for years. Although her manner was often overbearing, everyone, themselves included, bore with her managing disposition for the simple reason that she did a necessary job well.

  With a stylish flourish, Muriel brought her gig to a halt in the forecourt. She was handsome in a mannish way, undeniably striking with her upright carriage and dark hair.

  She stared at Caro. “Great heavens, Caro!—were you thrown? You’ve grass stains on your gown. Are you all right?” Her tone was faint, as if she couldn’t quite credit her eyes. “The way you took off, I never would have believed you’d succeed in reining Henry in.”

  “I didn’t.” Caro waved at Michael. “Luckily Michael was riding out—he bravely leapt into the gig and performed the necessary feat.”

  Michael met her eyes, saw the lurking, gracefully grateful smile. Managed not to smile in return.

  “Thank goodness for that.” Muriel turned to him, nodding in greeting. “Michael—I didn’t know you’d returned.”

  “I arrived this morning. Have you any idea why Henry bolted? I’ve checked reins and harness—there doesn’t seem to be any obvious cause.”

  Muriel frowned at Henry. “No. Caro and I were driving home together, then Caro turned into your lane and waved. She was just a little way along when Henry started, then”—Muriel gestured—“off he went.” She looked at Caro.

  Who nodded. “Yes, it happened just like that.” She stroked Henry’s nose. “Which is strange—he’s normally a placid beast. I drive him whenever I’m home.”

  “Well, next time we meet at Fordingham, I’ll take you up with me, you may be sure.” Muriel widened her eyes. “I nearly had palpitations—I expected to come upon you bloody and broken.”

  Caro made no direct answer; frowning, she studied Henry. “Something must have startled him.”

  “Possibly a stag.” Muriel gathered her reins. “The bushes are so thick along that stretch, it’s impossible to see what may be lurking.”

  “True.” Caro nodded. “But Henry would have known.”

  “Indeed. But now you’re safe, I must get on.” Muriel glanced at Michael. “We were discussing arrangements for the church fete, and I must make a start. I assume you’ll be attending?”

  He smiled easily. “Of course.” He made a mental note to learn when the fete was. “My regards to Hedderwick, and George if you see him.”

  Muriel inclined her head. “I’ll pass your wishes on.” She exchanged a gracious nod with Caro, then eyed Caro’s gig, presently blocking the exit from the forecourt.

  Michael glanced at Caro. “Let’s take Henry to the stables. I’ll have Hardacre examine him, see if he can suggest anything to account for his start.”

  “An excellent notion.” Caro waited while he reached over and released the gig’s brake, then she waved to Muriel and led Henry forward.

  Michael checked that the gig was undamaged and the wheels rolling freely. Once it cleared the forecourt, he saluted Muriel. With a regal nod, she trotted her horse past and around toward the gates. He turned to follow Caro.

  Atlas was still standing patiently; Michael clicked his fingers and the bay ambled up. Catching the reins, he wound them about one hand, then lengthened his stride. Coming up on Henry’s other side, he looked across at Caro—at the section of her face he could see over the horse’s head. Her hair glimmered and shimmered in the sunshine, totally unfashionable yet it appeared so soft, it simply begged to be touched. “Are you fixed at Bramshaw House for the summer?”

  She glanced at him. “For the moment.” She patted Henry. “I move around between Geoffrey here, Augusta in Derby, and Angela in Berkshire. I have the house in London, but I haven’t yet reopened it.”

  He nodded. Geoffrey was her brother, Augusta and Angela her sisters; Caro was the baby, the youngest by many years. He glanced at her again; she was murmuring soothingly to Henry.

  A peculiar disorientation still gripped him, as if he were slightly off-balance. And it had to do with her. When they’d briefly met two years ago, she’d been recently bereaved, draped in widow’s weeds and heavily veiled; they’d exchanged a few murmured words, but he hadn’t truly seen or spoken with her. Prior to that, she’d spent the previous decade or so in Lisbon; he’d occasionally glimpsed her across ballrooms or crossed her path when she and Camden were in London, but had never shared more than the usual social pleasantries.

  There were only five years between them, yet although they’d known each other since childhood and had spent their formative years growing up in this restricted area of the New Forest, he didn’t truly know her at all.

  He certainly didn’t know the elegant and assured lady she’d become.

  She looked at him—caught him looking at her—and smiled easily, as if acknowledging a mutual curiosity.

  The temptation to assuage it grew.

  She looked forward; he followed her gaze. Summoned by the crunch of the gig’s wheels, Hardacre, his stableman, had come out of the stable. Michael beckoned; Hardacre came over, bobbing a deferential greeting to Caro, who returned it with his name and one of her serene smiles. While they walked the gig into the stableyard, Michael and she explained what had happened.

  Frowning, Hardacre ran knowledgeable eyes over both horse and gig, then scratched his balding pate. “Best leave him with me for an hour or so—I’ll unharness and check him over. See if there’s some problem.”

  Michael looked at Caro. “Are you in a hurry? I could lend you a gig and horse if you are.”

  “No, no.” She waved aside the offer with a smile. “An hour of peace would be welcome.”

  He recalled, reached solicitously for her arm. “Would you care for tea?”

  “That would be delightful.” Caro smiled more definitely as he settled her hand on his
sleeve. With a nod for Hardacre, she let Michael steer her toward the house. Her nerves were still flickering, twitching, hardly surprising, yet the panic of being in a runaway gig was already fading—who could have predicted that near-disaster would turn out so well? “Is Mrs. Entwhistle still your housekeeper?”

  “Yes. None of the staff have changed, not for years.”

  She looked ahead at the solid stone house with its gabled roof and dormer windows. They were walking through an orchard, the dappled shade sweet with the scent of swelling fruit. Between that and the back door lay a rambling herb garden bisected by a flagged path; to the left beyond a low wall lay the kitchen garden. “But that’s what draws us back, isn’t it?” She glanced at him, caught his eye. “That things stay comfortingly the same.”

  He held her gaze for a moment. “I hadn’t really thought…but you’re right.” He stopped to let her precede him up the narrow path. “Will you be remaining at Bramshaw for long?”

  She grinned, knowing he, now behind her, couldn’t see. “I’ve only just arrived.” In response to a panicked summons from Elizabeth, her niece. She glanced back at him. “I expect to be here for some weeks.”

  They reached the back door; Michael leaned past her to open it, conscious as he did of her—just her. As he followed her into the dim corridor, directing her to the drawing room, he registered how not simply feminine, but female she was. How much as a woman she impinged on his senses, with her slender yet curvaceous figure gowned in filmy muslin.

  There was nothing the least unusual about the gown; it was Caro herself who was unusual, and that in more ways than one.

  Following her into the drawing room, he tugged the bellpull. When Gladys, the maid, appeared, he ordered tea.

  Caro had strolled to the long windows at the end of the room; she smiled at Gladys, who bobbed and left, then she looked at him. “It’s such a lovely afternoon—shall we sit out on the terrace and enjoy the sunshine?”

  “Why not?” Joining her, he set the French doors wide. He followed her onto the flagged terrace to where a wrought-iron table and two chairs stood perfectly placed to capture the sunshine and the vista over the front lawns.

  He held one chair for her, then, circling the table, took the other. There was a frown in her eyes when she lifted them to his.

  “I can’t remember—have you a butler?”

  “No. We did years ago, but the house was closed up for some time, and he moved on.” He grimaced. “I suppose I should look around for one.”

  Her brows rose. “Indeed.” Her expression stated that a local Member should certainly have a butler. “But if you’re quick, you won’t need to look far.”

  He looked his question; she smiled. “Remember Jeb Carter? He left Fritham village to train as a butler under his uncle in London. He apparently did well, but was seeking to return to the district so he could better watch over his mother. Muriel was searching for a butler—again—and she hired him. Unfortunately Carter, as so many before him, failed to meet Muriel’s exacting standards, so she let him go. That was only yesterday—he’s currently staying at his mother’s cottage.”

  “I see.” He studied her eyes, hoping he was reading the messages in the silvery blue accurately. “So you think I should hire him?”

  She smiled one of her quick, approving, warming smiles. “I think you should see if he would suit. You know him and his family—he’s honest as the day is long, and the Carters were always good workers.”

  He nodded. “I’ll send a message.”

  “No.” The reproof was gentle, but definite. “Go and see him. Drop by while passing.”

  He met her eyes, then inclined his head. There were few he would take direct guidance from, but Caro’s edicts in such matters he judged to be beyond question. She was, indeed, the perfect person—the unquestionably best-qualified person—to sound out regarding his direction with Elizabeth, her niece.

  The tea arrived, brought by Mrs. Entwhistle, who had clearly come to see Caro. She took her celebrity in stride; he watched as she said all the right things, asking after Mrs. Entwhistle’s son, complimenting her on the delicate cream puffs arranged in a dish. Mrs. Entwhistle glowed and retreated, thoroughly pleased.

  While Caro poured, Michael wondered if she even registered her performance, if it was calculated or simply came naturally. Then she handed him his cup and smiled, and he decided that while her responses might once have been learned, they were now ingrained. Essentially spontaneous.

  Simply the way she was.

  While they sipped and consumed—she nibbled, he ate—they exchanged news of mutual acquaintances. They moved in the same circles, were both extremely well connected on both diplomatic and political fronts; it was supremely easy to fill the time.

  The knack of making polite conversation came readily, fluidly, to them both, a skill attesting to their experience. In substance, however, he would bow to her; her comments displayed an insight into people and their reactions that surpassed his own, that struck deeper and truer, illuminating motives.

  It was pleasant in the sunshine. He studied her while they traded information; to his eyes she glowed with confidence, not the sort that sparkled and gleamed, but a quiet, steady assurance that shone through, that seemed bone-deep, infinitely sure, almost serene.

  She’d grown to be a remarkably calm woman, one who effortlessly cast an aura of peace.

  It occurred to him that time was passing—oh so easily. He set down his cup. “So, what are your plans?”

  She met his gaze, then opened her eyes wide. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” There was a hint of self-deprecatory humor in her tone. “I traveled for some months while in mourning, so I’ve satisfied that urge. I did the Season this year—it was lovely to meet friends again, pick up the threads, but…” She grimaced lightly. “That’s not enough to fill a life. I stayed with Angela this time—I’m not sure yet what I want to do with the house, if I want to open it again and live there, hold court like some literary hostess, or perhaps immerse myself in good works….” Her lips lifted, her eyes teased. “Can you see me doing any of those things?”

  The silver blue of her gaze seemed layered—open, honest, yet with intriguing depths. “No.” He considered her, sitting so relaxed on his terrace; he couldn’t see her as anything other than she’d been—an ambassador’s lady. “I think you should leave the good works to Muriel, and a court would be too restricted a stage.”

  She laughed, a golden sound that merged with the gilded afternoon. “You have a politician’s tongue.” She said it approvingly. “But enough of me—what of you? Were you in London this Season?”

  It was the opening he’d been angling for; he let his lips twist wryly. “I was, but various committees and bills proved more distracting than anticipated.” He elaborated, content to let her draw him out, to form for herself a picture of his life—and his need of a wife. She was too knowledgeable for him to need to spell it out; she would see—and be there to explain and assure Elizabeth when the time came.

  There was a subtle attraction in speaking with someone who knew his world and understood its nuances. Watching Caro’s face was a pleasure—seeing the expressions flit over her features, watching her gestures, so elegant and graceful, glimpsing the intelligence and humor in her eyes.

  Caro, too, was content, yet as he watched her, so she, too, from behind her polished facade, watched him, and waited.

  Eventually, he met her gaze and simply asked, “Why were you heading this way?”

  The lane led here and only here; they both knew it.

  She let her eyes light, beamed a brilliant smile his way. “Thank you for reminding me. What with all this catching up, I’d quite forgotten, yet it’s all very apt.”

  Leaning her forearms on the table, she fixed him with her most beguiling look. “As I said, I’m staying with Geoffrey, but old habits die hard. I know quite a few people from the ministries and embassies who are spending their summer in the neighborhood—I’ve organized a dinner
for tonight, but…” She let her smile turn rueful. “I’m one gentleman short. I came to prevail on you to help me balance my table—you, at least, will appreciate how necessary to my peace of mind that is.”

  He was charmed and had to laugh.

  “Now,” she continued, ruthlessly gilding the lily, “we have a small party from the Portuguese embassy, and three from the Austrian, and—” She proceeded to outline her guest list; no politician worth his salt would refuse the opportunity to bump such elbows.

  He made no pretense of doing so, but smiled easily. “I’ll be delighted to oblige.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him her very best smile; she might be a trifle out of practice, but it still seemed to work.

  A rattle and clop on the graveled drive reached them; they both looked, then rose as Hardacre walked Henry, once more harnessed to her gig, around.

  Hardacre saw them and ducked his head. “Seems right as rain now—you shouldn’t have any trouble with him.”

  Caro gathered her reticule and rounded the table. Michael took her elbow and steadied her down the terrace steps. She thanked Hardacre, then allowed Michael to help her up to the gig’s seat. Taking the reins, she smiled at him. “At eight o’clock then—I promise you won’t be bored.”

  “I’m sure I won’t be.” Michael saluted her and stepped back.

  She flicked the reins and Henry obliged; in perfect style, she trotted out along the drive.

  Michael watched her go—and wondered how she’d known he’d be here to ask. It was the first day in months he’d been home, yet…just luck? Or, given it was Caro, was it good management?

  Beside him, Hardacre cleared his throat. “Didn’t want to say anything to Mrs. Sutcliffe—no point. But that horse…”

  Michael looked at him. “What about him?”

  “I reckon the reason he bolted was because he’d been stung with pellets—found three tender spots on his left hindquarter, like marks left by stones from a slingshot.”