The Ideal Bride (Cynster Novels) Read online

  Needed to ensure that she remained by his side.

  Always. Forever.

  When he awoke, the sun had moved on and shadows dappled the interior of the cottage. The day was warm; their lack of clothes posed no problem, yet the air within the cottage had grown sultry. Caro lay asleep, curled on her side, facing away from him, her bottom snug against his side. Smiling, he savored the sensation, locked it in his memory, then, easing away, rolled from the daybed.

  Padding barefoot across tiles warmed by the sunshine, he quietly unlatched a window and set it wide. The sound of the stream gurgling and rushing drifted in; birdcalls added to the bucolic symphony.

  He breathed in, then turned. A light breeze, warm and caressing, danced in, and followed him back to the daybed. He stood looking down at Caro, at the slender, shapely limbs relaxed in slumber, at the ripe swell of her hips, the lush curves of her breasts, at the delicate features lightly flushed with slumber. The breeze lifted strands of her fine hair, caressed and stirred them.

  She slept on.

  In the past two days, he’d spilled his seed inside her five times. He hadn’t taken any precautions, hadn’t tried to avoid it, and nor had she.

  Of course, the only interludes she until now had dreamed of had been with Camden, her husband. Instinct, distinctly primitive, urged him to leave the matter as was, leave that particular stone unturned. Yet…

  Was it fair to simply let what might be—what was very likely to be—happen without her considered agreement? Without her consciously being aware of it and giving her consent?

  Yet if he mentioned it… it would certainly break the spell, and he had no guarantee how she would react. He didn’t even know how she felt about children.

  A vivid image of Caro with his son in her arms, with two daughters clinging to her skirts, filled his mind.

  For long moments, he was blind, held captured, entranced. Then he blinked back to reality… stunned, unsettled. Suddenly wary.

  Never had any conjured vision made him feel his heart was standing still—and would until he had it, until he’d secured the thing he’d seen and now so desperately, beyond thought or doubt, wanted.

  That thing he now sensed was critical for him, for his continued existence, for his future.

  It took a moment or so more before he was breathing freely.

  He looked again at Caro. His decision had been made—not, or so it seemed, by him. He wouldn’t mention the risk of pregnancy.

  He would, however, do whatever it took, give whatever was needed, to make his vision come true.

  Caro woke to the feel of Michael’s fingertips lightly tracing her bare skin. She lay still, eyes barely open, registering the sun still shining, the faint shadows playing across the tiles, the airy touch of a breeze drifting through a window he must have opened.

  She was lying on her side, facing the fireplace. He was lying stretched out behind her, on his back, the fingers of his right hand idly stroking her hip. Smiling, she let her eyes close, the better to savor the warmth that still enveloped her and his light, repetitive caress.

  A change in her breathing, or some tension in her body, must have given her away; a moment later, he shifted, coming up on one elbow, his body rearranging to spoon about hers.

  Her smile deepened; he bent his head and nuzzled the spot where her shoulder and throat met, placed a hot, lingering, openmouthed kiss over the pulse point there.

  Then he murmured, soft, low, infinitely dangerous, “I want you to keep your eyes closed, to just lie there, and let me make love to you.”

  Her breasts swelled, her nipples tightened even before he pushed his hand over her side, nudging her arm higher so he could close his hand and knead. Languidly, lazily. As if assessing her anew.

  Heat spread beneath her skin, but this time in a gentle wave, not a rushing, tumultuous tide.

  He caressed her—all of her—his touch assured yet never hurried, never driven. This, she concluded, was to be a slow engagement, each moment stretching, then sliding effortlessly into the next, each crest of sensation peaking, extending, before he let her fall back, catch her breath, and move on.

  Through a landscape she saw only through touch, knew only via tactile sensation. Gentle, repetitive, tactile stimulation.

  His hand moved over her bottom, fingers dipped, stroked, caressed. Until her need built, until she shifted her hips, gently moaned.

  She started to turn, expecting him to roll her onto her back and part her thighs. Instead, her shoulder met his chest, her hip his groin.

  “Other way,” he murmured, pressing her back, his voice deep, mur-murously sultry, stirring the thick molten heat inside her.

  He edged her upper thigh higher, angled her hips over, then she felt him, hard, hot, rigid, press in.

  Sink slowly in.

  She shut her eyes tight, clung to the moment, exhaled softly as it ended, leaving him deeply inside her.

  Then he moved. As slow and sultry as the sunshine, as openly seductive as the breeze. His body moved against hers in a slow, surging evocative rhythm, a cadence he refused to vary even when she gasped, when her senses coiled tight, and she sank her fingers into his thigh.

  He rode her gentle thrust after thrust until she could stand it no more, until a scream broke from her throat and she fractured, and the wonder poured in. It filled her up, and washed through her, leaving her blissfully free on some far distant shore.

  And still he filled her, each controlled thrust definite and sure. She was dimly aware when he reached his own limit and release caught him, racked him, then the storm rolled on and he lay beside her on that golden shore.

  Chapter 15

  They walked home along the path, through the glory of the late afternoon. They exchanged glances, light touches aplenty, but few words; at that moment, a moment out of time, they needed none.

  Caro couldn’t think—couldn’t form any opinion over what had transpired, couldn’t make those glorious moments of sharing conform to any pattern she’d heard of or recognized. What had happened simply was; all she needed to do was accept it.

  Beside her, Michael walked steadily, holding back branches so she could pass safely by, ready to grasp her arm and steady her if she slipped, but otherwise not holding her, leaving her free even while in his mind he acknowledged she was not, that he would never let her go. As they tramped through the woods and meadows, he tried to understand, conscious of a change, a realignment, a refinement of his feelings, a more acute defining of his direction.

  They passed through the gate in the hedge, and walked up through the gardens. As they stepped onto the stretch of lawn leading to the terrace, they heard voices.

  They glanced up and saw Muriel talking to Edward, who was looking faintly harassed.

  Edward saw them; Muriel followed his gaze, then drew herself up and waited for them to climb the steps.

  As they neared, both smiling easily, effortlessly adopting their social personas, Michael saw Muriel’s eyes fix on Caro’s face, faintly flushed, whether from their earlier exertions or their long walk in the sun that had shone throughout the day he couldn’t say. What Muriel made of the sight he couldn’t guess either; before she could comment, he held out his hand. “Good afternoon, Muriel. I must congratulate you again on the fete—it was a marvelous day and a wonderful turnout. You must be thoroughly gratified.”

  Muriel surrendered her hand, allowing him grasp her fingers. “Well, yes. I was indeed most happy with the way things turned out.” Her tone was gracious, faintly condescending.

  She exchanged nods with Caro, then continued, “I came to ask if there had been any difficulties at all with the diplomatic delegations. It was such an unusual idea to encourage them to attend—we need to gauge the success of the strategy in case we decide to try something similar again.”

  Muriel locked her gaze on Caro’s face. “I have to say I find it hard to credit that the diplomatic crowd, especially the foreigners, found much to excite them at such an event. As Sutcliffes, we hav
e a certain reputation to uphold—we don’t want to be associated with any suggestion of foisting boring entertainments on those in diplomatic circles.”

  Beneath his polished veneer, Michael bridled; Edward, not so experienced in hiding his feelings, stiffened. Muriel’s accusation, for that’s what it amounted to, was outrageous.

  Yet Caro simply laughed, lightly, apparently ingenuously—she put both him and Edward to shame. “You’re worrying about nothing, Muriel, I assure you.” She laid a hand briefly, reassuringly, on Muriel’s arm. “The diplomatic crowd, especially the foreigners, were delighted one and all.”

  Muriel frowned. “They weren’t just being polite?”

  Caro shook her head. “It’s the balls and glittering functions of which that crowd has a surfeit—simple pleasures, relaxing entertainments in the country—those are, for them, golden moments.”

  Smiling, she gestured down the terrace; still frowning, Muriel turned and walked beside her.

  “From the diplomatic standpoint, and I’m sure Edward and Michael will bear me out in this”—with a wave, Caro included them as they fell in behind—“everything went perfectly, without the slightest hitch.”

  Muriel stared at the flagstones. After a moment, she asked, her tone flat, “So you don’t have any suggestions on how we might improve things?”

  Caro halted, her expression openly pensive, then she shook her head. “I can’t think how one might improve on perfection.” The words held a glimmer of steel. She caught Muriel’s eye and smiled graciously. “Now, will you stay for tea?”

  Muriel looked at her, then shook her head. “No, thank you—I want to call on Miss Trice. Such a terrible thing for those two men to have attacked her. I feel it’s my duty to give her every support in overcoming her ordeal.”

  As they’d all met Miss Trice numerous times since the attack, and been reassured, not just by the lady herself but by her sunny good humor, that her “ordeal” had left no lasting mark, none of them could find anything to say.

  With a telling sense of relief, they made their farewells.

  “I’ll see you out.” Caro conducted Muriel through the open drawing room doors and on toward the front hall.

  After exchanging a brief glance with Michael, Edward followed, hovering just behind, attaining that all-but-invisible state only the best political aides could achieve.

  Michael remained on the terrace; within a few minutes, Caro and Edward rejoined him.

  Edward was frowning at Caro. “It’s true—she’s jealous of you! You should have heard the questions she put to me before you two joined us.”

  Caro smiled reassuringly at Edward. “I know, but you mustn’t take it to heart.” When he continued to look mutinous, she went on, “Just consider—normally Muriel’s the most… I suppose ‘senior’ is the right word—hostess or lady hereabouts. But when I come home, even for a few weeks, I—without exerting myself in the least—take her place. That has to be galling.”

  “Particularly,” Michael put in, “for one of Muriel’s disposition. She expects to be at the center of things.”

  Caro nodded. “She craves the notice, the position, but you have to admit she works hard for it.”

  Edward humphed.

  “Anyway,” Caro said, “Muriel might not have wanted tea, but I do.” She glanced at Michael. “I’m ravenous.”

  He offered his arm. “Long walks through the countryside tend to have that effect.”

  Whether Edward believed them neither knew; they were both too experienced to look to find out.

  They found Elizabeth in the parlor, and consumed vast quantities of scones and jam, then Michael, reluctantly, rose to take his leave. Caro met his eyes; he saw her consider inviting him to dine, then decide—to his mind correctly—against it. They’d spent all day so close; they both needed time alone—at least, he did; he suspected she did, too. Perspective was something they both knew the value of.

  She walked with him to the parlor door, gave him her hand. “Thank you for a most… enjoyable day.”

  Holding her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips, kissed. “It was truly my pleasure.”

  Pressing her fingers, he released her.

  Caro noted the last glance Michael exchanged with Edward before he turned and left the room. A changing of the guard; it couldn’t have been clearer. Michael had remained with her throughout the day; the evening was Edward’s watch.

  Inwardly smiling, she made no comment, accepting—allowing— their protection without argument. She was fond of them both, albeit in different ways; if watching over her made them happy, and they could manage it without bothering her, she could see no reason to complain.

  The next morning, an hour after breakfast, Caro sat on the terrace and listened to Elizabeth practice a particularly difficult sonata. Edward had remained in the drawing room to turn the music sheets; she’d smiled and drifted out to sit in the cool air of the bright morning—and think.

  About Michael. And herself.

  Since they’d parted yesterday, she had, deliberately, not thought about him, about them—wanting—needing—a certain distance from which to see more clearly, to be able to examine, study, and understand what was going on.

  Despite all, yesterday had been a peaceful day. The hours spent with Michael had been soothing, untouched by any emotional upheavals. A time when they’d both simply existed and let what would be, be. The evening had passed in much the same vein, through a quiet dinner with Geoffrey, Edward, and Elizabeth, followed by their usual musical interlude in the drawing room and lastly a walk in the balmy evening, accompanied by Edward and Elizabeth, before retiring to her room and her couch.

  Somewhat to her surprise, she’d slept very well. Long walks through the countryside—long hours wrapped in Michael’s arms.

  This morning, she’d risen, refreshed and eager for the day. After breakfast, she’d spent time with Mrs. Judson going over household matters; now, her slate clear, she was looking forward to turning her mind to what, running beneath all else in her life, was becoming an obsession.

  Michael—yes, but not just him. She was either too old, too experienced, or had never been the sort to become infatuated, fascinated by another person, by his charms, by aspects of his personality. After spending so many years in diplomatic spheres, where such attributes were assumed, put on like costumes whenever necessary, she knew them for the flimsy things they were, knew their real worth.

  Her fascination didn’t center on Michael himself, but on what they, together, created between them.

  That was where the power that both he and she were drawn to resided. It was something she could sense, at times so real she felt she could almost touch it; it arose from the link that was forming between them, that grew from the amalgam of their selves…

  Frowning, she rose, drew her fringed shawl about her shoulders, and stepped down onto the lawn.

  It was so hard to see what was happening—impossible to reduce the emotions and sensations, and that simple overwhelming certainty that engulfed her when she was in his arms, to statement, to logical rational description from which an argument could be formed, a position defined, action planned…

  She stopped, tipped her head back, and looked up at the sky. “Heaven help me—I really have become far too much like Camden.”

  Shaking her head, she looked down and continued on, eyes fixed unseeing on the path before her feet. Trying to understand what was developing between her and Michael… using logic wasn’t going to work. What she was dealing with operated beyond logic, of that she felt quite sure.

  Emotion, then. That, indeed, seemed the more likely key. She needed, would feel more comfortable having, some sense of whither they—and their new and strange relationship—were heading, where it was leading them, both she and he. If she was to let emotion guide her…

  She grimaced, and paced on.

  No help there either; she didn’t know—couldn’t explain—what she felt. Not because she was unsure of what she felt, but bec
ause she had no words for it, no measure for it, no recognition of what the feelings burgeoning and growing stronger every time she and Michael met were, let alone meant.

  She’d never felt like this before. Not about Camden, not about any man—and especially not with any other man. That was another aspect about which she was certain—whatever she felt, Michael felt it, too. It was a mutual development, affecting him as much, and in much the same way, as she.

  And she suspected his reaction was the same as hers. They were both mature; they’d both seen the world, were comfortable in who and what they were, confident of their positions in society. Yet what was evolving between them was a fresh field, one on which neither had previously dallied, one with horizons neither had previously explored.

  When faced with a new and different challenge, they both possessed temperaments that impelled them to walk confidently in and examine, study—assess what new opportunity life might be offering them. She was conscious of an eager interest, of something more compelling than mere fascination, a need more than an inclination to go forward and learn more. Understand more. And perhaps, ultimately…

  She broke off her thoughts, blinked—and realized she stood facing the gate leading out of the garden. She muttered an oath and glanced back; she hadn’t meant to walk this far, hadn’t been conscious of doing so. She’d been thinking, and her feet had brought her here.

  Her instinctive destination was clear, yet she knew Edward, once free of Elizabeth’s sonata, would look for her to watch over her. But he knew of the cottage and that she often walked there; when he discovered she wasn’t in the house, he’d guess…

  Facing forward, she looked at the path wending its way across the first meadow and into the first stretch of woodland. The path cut through a number of such wooded stands, but none were dark or dense; with the sun streaming down, it was difficult to imagine anyone skulking along the way, waiting to shoot or attack her.

  And really, why would they? Looking along the path, she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried, drum up any fear. The pellets striking Henry and the arrow had been accidents; admittedly, the arrow striking the tree so close to her had been momentarily scarifying—she could still hear the dull thwack in her mind—and she could still remember the desperation, the cold clutch of fear that had gripped her when Henry had bolted, but Michael had rescued her—she’d come to no harm at all. As for the attack on Miss Trice, that had been nasty and shocking, but hadn’t truly touched her at all; there was no reason to suppose she’d been the intended target.