The Ideal Bride Page 5

  They left the carriages at the Dolphin and wandered along High Street, then the ladies determinedly turned to the shops along French Street and Castle Way.

  The gentlemen—all three of them—started to drag their heels. Started to realize they’d been inveigled into being packhorses under false pretenses, to wit, by having elusive carrots dangled before their noses.

  Edward, doubtless more accustomed to such trials, merely sighed and accepted the parcels Caro and the ambassador’s wife dropped in his arms. Michael found himself landed with a bandbox tied with wide pink ribbon, bestowed on him by Elizabeth with a sweet smile.

  Chattering together, the ladies entered the next shop. Michael glanced at Ferdinand. Holding two gaudily wrapped packages, the Portuguese looked as discomposed and disgusted as he himself felt. Looking at Edward, at the relatively innocuous brown packages Caro had handed him, Michael raised his brows. He met Edward’s eyes. “Want to swap?”

  Edward shook his head. “The etiquette pertaining here is that you have to hold on to whatever they hand you, or else they’ll get confused.”

  Michael held his gaze. “You’re making that up.”

  Edward grinned.

  By the time the ladies finally consented to return to the Dolphin, where luncheon awaited them in a private parlor, Michael was burdened with the bandbox and three other parcels, two tied with ribbon. The only aspect of the situation that lightened his mood was that Ferdinand was all but invisible behind the ten parcels his aunt and the duchess had stacked in his arms.

  Michael felt something perilously close to fellow feeling when, together with Ferdinand, he tumbled the packages onto a settle in the inn parlor. They exchanged glances, then looked at Edward, who had escaped relatively lightly. Reading their expressions, Edward nodded. “I’ll arrange to leave these here.”

  “Good.” Michael made it clear by his tone that any other outcome would precipitate mutiny.

  Ferdinand just glowered.

  The luncheon started well enough. Michael sat on one bench beside Elizabeth, with Caro on his other side and Ferdinand beyond her. The other four sat on the bench opposite. He wanted to question Elizabeth as to her aspirations, angling to learn what she looked for from marriage, but the two leading comments he introduced both somehow ended back with the balls, parties, and entertainments of London.

  On top of that, the countess and the duchess, speaking across the table, distracted him. Their comments and queries were too needle-sharp, too acute to be lightly turned aside. They may not be their husbands, yet they were assuredly sounding him out; he had to pay them due attention.

  Edward came to his aid once or twice; Michael met his gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly in appreciation. Elizabeth, however, seemed sunk in her own thoughts and contributed nothing.

  Then the desserts arrived and the older ladies shifted their attention to the crème anglaise and poached pears. Seizing the moment, he turned to Elizabeth, only to feel a sudden warmth against his other side.

  Turning that way, he realized Caro had shifted along the bench, realized with an eruption of hot anger that she’d shifted because Ferdinand had shifted into her.

  He had to fight down a surprisingly powerful urge to reach behind Caro and clip Ferdinand over the ear. It was what he deserved for behaving like such a boor, yet…diplomatic incidents had arisen from less.

  He fixed his eyes on Ferdinand’s face; the Portuguese was currently intent on Caro, looking down, trying to read her face. “So, Leponte, what sort of horses do you keep in town? Any Arabs?”

  Ferdinand glanced up at him, momentarily at sea. Then he colored faintly and responded.

  Michael kept asking questions, about carriages, even the yacht, focusing everyone’s attention on Ferdinand until the meal ended and they stood to leave.

  As she followed him out from the bench, Caro squeezed his arm lightly. It was the only acknowledgment she made that she appreciated his support, yet he felt an unexpected, somewhat righteous glow.

  They’d planned to take a postprandial stroll along the old walls. The view afforded over Southampton Water and south to the Isle of Wight, taking in all the commerical and private shipping that dotted the blue expanse in between, was superb.

  The wind whipped the ladies’ skirts and tugged at their bonnets; conversation was difficult. The ambassador’s wife linked her arm with Elizabeth’s; heads together, they discussed some feminine thing. The duchess and countess walked alongside, captured by the view. Behind the four ladies, Caro followed, Ferdinand close beside her. Michael got the distinct impression Ferdinand was groveling, trying to get back into Caro’s good graces, knowing he’d stepped over that invisible line.

  The Portuguese was exceedingly charming; he’d probably succeed.

  Bringing up the rear with Edward, watching Ferdinand’s artful performance, Michael couldn’t help but wonder if the Portuguese had misinterpreted, or rather missed altogether, the irony in Caro’s nickname, and thought the “Merry” in the “Merry Widow” meant something it did not.

  3

  The next day dawned bright and clear. At Caro’s suggestion, Michael joined them at Bramshaw House. She, Elizabeth, and Geoffrey climbed into the barouche; Michael and Edward kept pace on their horses during the short journey to the landing stage just south of Totton.

  Smiling across at Michael as the carriage rolled along, Caro reviewed her plans for the day—her order of battle. Ferdinand, anxious to please after his faux pas of the day before, had agreed to bring his yacht into the northernmost reaches of Southampton Water, thus shortening the time they, and all the others, too, needed to travel before embarking on their cruise.

  Reducing time spent in the carriage had seemed wise. If Elizabeth spent too much time in Michael’s sight while in ordinary situations, she might inadvertently start to correct the image they were working to project.

  They had to walk a fine line. While alone with Michael or with only herself or Edward present, Elizabeth could behave in ways she couldn’t if others were about to witness her performance; the only restriction was what Michael would believe. In public, however, if she was ultimately to marry Edward and support him in his career, she couldn’t paint herself as a silly flibbertigibbet; those in diplomatic circles had long memories. When among others, all she could do was stumble in minor ways—like her white gown and diamonds or her choking at table—that would be forgiven her youth or excused as inexperience.

  Thus far they’d managed exceedingly well. Caro was pleased, but knew better than to rest on her laurels. Not yet.

  They rattled through Totton, then turned off the main road and headed down the incline to the water’s edge. The twin masts of Ferdinand’s yacht came into sight, then they rounded the last hill and there it lay, bobbing gently at the jetty.

  Most of the others were already there; the ambassador and his wife were boarding as the Bramshaw House party drew up beside the landing stage. A wooden platform built out from the bank, being on the western shore of the estuary, well away from the bustling port on the opposite shore, the jetty was used almost exclusively by pleasure boats.

  Michael dismounted, gave his horse into the care of the ostler hired from the tavern in Totton for the day, then came to open the carriage door. Smiling with very real anticipation, Caro gave him her hand; momentarily aware of the strength of his grasp, she allowed him to help her down.

  He met her gaze, then glanced at the yacht.

  “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” she said.

  He looked back at her, paused, then admitted, “I wasn’t expecting anything quite so large. Most ‘yachts’ aren’t that big.”

  She settled her shawl about her shoulders. “I understand Ferdinand uses it up and down the Portuguese coast, so it would have to withstand the Atlantic breakers. They’re even more ferocious than the Channel in a storm.”

  The carriage shifting behind them recalled Michael to his duty. He turned and helped Elizabeth down.

  Caro walked to the na
rrow gangplank leading onto the yacht. While she waited for Edward and Geoffrey to join her, she scanned those already on board. She was delighted to note Mrs. Driscoll and her daughters. She’d suggested Ferdinand invite them, too; clearly he’d complied.

  She couldn’t yet see if the Driscolls had lived up to her expectations. Glancing back, she took in the delightful picture Elizabeth made in her summery gown of sprig muslin, ruffled at the neckline, sleeves, and hem. She carried a matching ruffled parasol; the outfit was perfect for a garden party, or to impress impressionable males at any outdoor event.

  Of course, no woman with the slightest modicum of common sense would wear such a gown aboard an oceangoing yacht.

  Noting Michael’s silent but patent approval of Elizabeth’s appearance, Caro inwardly grinned; he wouldn’t be so approving by the time they headed home. She summoned Edward with a look; leaving Elizabeth to Michael, he came to give her his arm and aid her in picking her way up the gangplank.

  “I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing,” he murmured, steadying her as she swayed.

  Tightening her grip on his arm, she laughed. “Oh, ye of little faith. Have I failed you yet?”

  “No, but it’s not you directly I doubt.”

  “Oh?” She glanced at him, then back at Elizabeth, tripping prettily toward the gangplank on Michael’s arm.

  “No, not Elizabeth either. I just wonder if you’re reading him aright.”

  Caro drew back to look at Edward’s face. “Michael?”

  Looking ahead, Edward’s face hardened. “And not just Anstruther-Wetherby.”

  Facing forward, Caro saw Ferdinand, the smiling convivial host, waiting at the gangplank’s head. He looked like a handsome wolf—too many teeth were on show. Smiling in return, she covered the last yards and gave him her hand; he bowed her aboard with courtly grace.

  Straightening, he raised her hand to his lips. “You are the last, as befits the most important, dear Caro. Now, we may set sail.”

  With a twist of her wrist, she slid her fingers from his grasp. “Do wait until my brother and niece and Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby come aboard.”

  With an amused glance, she directed Ferdiand’s attention to where Elizabeth was unsteadily negotiating the narrow gangplank. “It’s the first time Elizabeth’s been aboard a yacht. I’m sure she’ll find the experience rewarding.” She patted Ferdinand’s arm. “I’ll leave you to greet them.”

  She was aware of the irritated look he cast her as she swept forward. Edward strolled in her wake; they were both excellent sailors, quite at home on the lightly rolling deck.

  “Countess. Duchess.” They exchanged bows, then Caro greeted the gentlemen before turning to Mrs. Driscoll. “I’m so glad you and your daughters could join us.”

  As she’d predicted—it was so nice to be proved right—both the Driscoll girls were sensibly attired in twill walking dresses, plain and unadorned. Her own gown of bronze silk twill was made high to the throat, with long fitted sleeves and only slightly flared skirts. Her shawl was a plain one without any fringe. Other than a strip of flat lace around the collar and the placket of her bodice—safe enough—there were no frills or furbelows to catch on anything.

  Unlike the fine ruffles of Elizabeth’s gown.

  “Oh!”

  As if on cue, the feminine cry had everyone turning. Elizabeth’s hem had snagged in the gap between the gangplank and the deck. Ferdinand had his hands full holding her upright, while Michael crouched precariously on the gangplank, struggling to unhook the fine material.

  Reining in her smile to the merely happy, Caro turned back to the others. With a wide gesture, she directed all attention to the brilliant blue swath of water before them, the surface ruffled by a gentle breeze. “It’s going to be a glorious day!”

  It certainly started out that way. Once Elizabeth, Michael, and Geoffrey were safe aboard, the gangplank was drawn in and the ropes untied; a trio of swarthy sailors swarmed up the rigging, then the sails were unfurled and the yacht leapt before the wind.

  With “oohs” and “aahs” and shining eyes, all the guests clung to the bow rails and watched the waves rush to meet them. Fine spray kicked up as the yacht gained speed, sending the ladies back from the rails to the chairs grouped behind the forecastle. Leaving Elizabeth to her own devices—she had strict instructions on what line to take—Caro linked her arm in Geoffrey’s and set out to stroll, determined to stay clear of Michael and Ferdinand both.

  It was easy to pass among the ladies, to share the enjoyment as the yacht sped smoothly down the western shore of the estuary. Other than when they crossed the wake thrown up by a larger commercial ship, the journey was relatively calm.

  While passing the spot along the port bow where Michael, Elizabeth, and the Driscoll girls stood chatting, Caro listened in.

  Elizabeth, eyes shining, was holding forth. “The suppers are really nothing at all to comment on, but the dancing, especially close by the rotunda, is quite thrilling—one can never be sure whom one is rubbing shoulders with!”

  Vauxhall. Caro smiled. The pleasure gardens did not rate highly among the political and diplomatic set. As she and Geoffrey moved on, she saw Elizabeth lean against a rope to steady herself; when she tried to straighten, the ruffle at her shoulder caught on the rough hemp. One of the Driscoll girls came to her rescue.

  Elizabeth had already tried to open her parasol. Michael had had to grab it, wrestle it closed, then explain to her why she couldn’t use it.

  Caro risked a quick peek at his face; he was looking a trifle harassed, even a touch grim. Subduing her smile, she glided on.

  As Ferdinand had to play the host, it would be some time before he would be free to chase her. She was aware of his intent, but confident of her ability to tend him off. As Camden Sutcliffe’s much younger wife, she’d been the target of far more experienced seducers—rakes, roués, and licentious noblemen—for more than a decade; Ferdinand stood no chance with her. Indeed, no man stood any chance with her; she had absolutely no interest in what they were so eager to offer. In fact, they wouldn’t be so eager to offer if they knew…

  Beside her, Geoffrey cleared his throat. “You know, m’dear, I’ve been meaning to ask.” From beneath his heavy brows, he studied her face. “Are you happy, Caro?”

  She blinked.

  “I mean,” Geoffrey rushed on, “you’re not that old and you haven’t opened up the London house and, well…” He shrugged. “I just wondered.”

  So did she. Smiling lightly, she patted his arm. “I haven’t opened the house because I’m not sure what I want to do with it—whether I really want to live there at all.” That much she could explain. Indeed, voicing her feelings solidified the strange equivocation she felt about the house in Half Moon Street. She and Camden had used it as their London residence; located in the best part of town, it was neither too big nor too small, had a pleasant rear garden, and was filled with exquisite antiques, yet…“I’m honestly not sure.”

  She liked the house, but now when she went there…something simply wasn’t right.

  “I, ah, wondered whether you were thinking of marrying again.”

  She met Geoffrey’s gaze. “No, I’m not. I have no intention of remarrying.”

  He colored slightly, patted her hand as he looked forward. “It’s just that—well, if you do, I hope you’ll stay closer this time.” His voice turned gruff. “You’ve family here…”

  His words trailed away; his gaze remained fixed ahead. Caro followed it, to Ferdinand, standing beside the wheel giving his captain orders.

  Geoffrey snorted. “I just don’t want you marrying some foreign bounder.”

  She laughed, hugged his arm reassuringly. “Truly, you can set your mind at rest. Ferdinand is playing some game, but it’s not one in which I have any interest.” She met Geoffrey’s gaze. “I won’t be throwing my cap into his ring.”

  He read her eyes, then humphed. “Good!”

  Half an hour later, she thanked the gods that Ge
offrey had spoken of his concerns sooner rather than later, and so given her the opportunity to allay them before Ferdinand made his move. As soon as he’d finished with his captain, he fixed his sights on her. With considerable flair, he displaced Geoffrey at her side, then cut her out from the crowd congregated behind the forecastle. She permitted him to take her strolling about the deck—for the simple reason that it was an open deck; there was a limit to what he might even think to accomplish within plain sight of all the others.

  Including his aunt, who, somewhat to Caro’s surprise, seemed to be keeping a sharp eye on her nephew, although whether that eye was severely disapproving or simply severe, she couldn’t say.

  “Perhaps, my dear Caro, as you are so enjoying the trip, you could return tomorrow and we could go out again. A private cruise just for two.”

  She assumed a considering expression, sensed him holding his breath, then resolutely shook her head. “The church fete is quite soon. If I don’t make an effort, Muriel Hedderwick will be unbearable.”

  Ferdinand frowned. “Who is this Muriel Hedderwick?”

  Caro smiled. “She’s actually my niece-by-marriage, but that doesn’t adequately describe our relationship.”

  Ferdinand continued to frown, then ventured, “Niece-by-marriage—this means she is Sutcliffe’s—your late husband’s—niece?”

  She nodded. “That’s right. She married a gentleman named Hedderwick and lives…” She continued, putting Muriel and her history to good use, totally distracting Ferdinand, who wanted to know only so he could counter Muriel’s supposed influence and inveigle Caro away on his yacht.

  Poor Ferdinand was destined for disappointment, on that and all other scores. By the time he realized he’d been diverted, they were nearing the bow once more.

  Looking ahead to where Michael and the girls had been standing, Caro saw the group clustering by the rail. She could see Michael’s back, and the Driscoll girls’ gowns, and Edward, all pressing close.

  Edward glanced around and saw her. He beckoned urgently.