The Ideal Bride Page 8

  His expression easy, he stepped back. And turned to help Elizabeth into her saddle, leaving Edward to lift Caro to hers.

  Walking to where Atlas stood waiting, he glanced back at the others. “There’s still hours of sunshine left.” He smiled at Elizabeth. “Why don’t we ride through the forest, skirt around Fritham, and stop by the Manor for afternoon tea?”

  They exchanged glances, brows rising.

  “Yes, let’s.” Elizabeth faced him, simple pleasure in her smile. “That will be a lovely ending to a pleasant day.”

  Michael looked at Caro. One of her charming smiles curving her lips, she nodded. “An excellent suggestion.”

  He swung up to Atlas’s saddle and they turned into the forest. He, Caro, and Elizabeth knew the way. They rode through the glades, sometimes galloping, then slowing to amble along the path to the next open ride. Whoever was in the lead steered them. The sun filtered down through the thick canopies, dappling the track; the rich forest scents rose around them, the quiet punctuated by birdcalls and the occasional rustle of larger beasts.

  No one attempted to converse; Michael was content to let the companionable silence lengthen and take hold. Only among friends would Caro not feel it necessary to chat; that she didn’t make the effort was encouraging.

  They approached the Manor from the south, emerging from the outliers of Eyeworth Wood to clatter into the stableyard. Hardacre took charge of their mounts; they walked up through the old orchard to the house.

  Leading the way along the corridor to the front hall, Caro glanced back at him. “The terrace? It’ll be lovely out there.”

  He nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll speak with Mrs. Entwhistle about tea.”

  Mrs. Entwhistle had heard them come in; the prospect of providing tea and sustenance for their small party quite delighted her, reminding Michael of how little the housekeeper generally had to do.

  He found the others seated about the wrought-iron table. The sun, still above the treetops to the west, bathed the area in golden light. His gaze on Caro’s face, he drew out the last chair and sat, once again opposite her; she seemed to have relaxed, yet he couldn’t be sure.

  Elizabeth turned to him. “Caro was just telling me she’d heard a rumor that Lord Jeffries was to resign. Is it true?”

  Lionel, Lord Jeffries had been appointed to the Board of Trade only the year before, but his tenure had been marked by diplomatic incident after incident. “Yes.” Across the table, he met Caro’s gaze. “Inevitable after his latest gaffe.”

  “So it’s true he called the Belgian ambassador an extortionist to his face?” Caro’s eyes twinkled.

  He nodded. “Burnt his last bridge in the process, but I can imagine it was almost worth it to see Rochefoucauld’s face.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Did you? See his face?”

  He grinned. “Yes—I was there.”

  “Jupiter!” Edward whistled through his teeth. “I heard Jeffries’ aides were beside themselves—it must have been an impossible situation.”

  “The instant Jeffries set eyes on Rochefoucauld, the die was cast. Nothing—not even the Prime Minister—could have stopped him.”

  They were still discussing the latest diplomatic scandal when Jeb Carter carried out the tea tray.

  Immediately, Caro looked at Michael; he was waiting to catch that look—to see her understanding in her quicksilver eyes, to bask in her approval.

  Little by little, step by step; he was determined to draw closer to her, and would exploit any tool that came to hand.

  “Will you pour?” he asked.

  She reached for the pot, flashing a delighted smile Carter’s way, inquiring after his mother before letting him, blushing at being remembered, escape.

  Elizabeth took her cup, sipped, a frown in her eyes—then her face cleared. “Of course—he’s Muriel’s last butler, the one she recently turned off.” Her puzzlement returned. “How did you know him?”

  Caro smiled and explained; Jeb had been away training in London for so long Elizabeth hadn’t remembered him.

  Of course, Caro had been away for even longer. Sipping his tea, watching as she reminded Elizabeth of various others in the district, workers and their families and where they were now, who had married whom, who had died or moved away, Michael wondered if she ever forgot anyone. Such a memory for people and personal details was a godsend in political circles.

  The minutes passed easily; the afternoon waned. The pot had gone cold and Mrs. Entwhistle’s cakes had disappeared when, at Caro’s request, he asked for their horses to be brought around. They’d risen and were walking down the terrace steps to wait in the forecourt when the rattle and clop of an approaching gig reached them.

  Caro halted on the steps; raising a hand to shade her eyes, she looked to see who it was. The aftereffects of her momentary weakness as they’d approached the Rufus Stone had gradually faded; her nerves had settled—she felt reasonably calm once more. Later, she’d castigate herself for reacting as she had—when she was safely in her room and a long way from Michael.

  Otherwise, the day had gone more or less as she’d wished; she doubted they’d advanced their cause, yet neither had they harmed it—and Michael had had no chance to make an offer, or even to discuss such matters with her.

  It had been a positive day by default; she was content with that.

  The gig came into sight, the horse trotting smartly up the drive with Muriel on the seat. She was an excellent whip; she halted the gig before the steps in some style. “Caro. Michael.”

  Muriel exchanged nods with them and with Edward and Elizabeth, then looked at Michael. “I’m giving one of my suppers for the Ladies’ Association tomorrow evening. As you’re home, I came to invite you to attend—I know all the ladies would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you.”

  Michael stepped down to stand beside Caro; she felt his gaze touch her face. Guessing what was behind his hesitation, she glanced at him, smiled. “Do come. You’ll know most of us there.”

  Despite their earlier contretemps—and she had to forgive him, he couldn’t know—she was in reasonable charity with him. Since that painful moment, he’d behaved with exemplary tact.

  He read her eyes, then glanced at Muriel, his politician’s facade sliding seamlessly into place. “I’d be delighted to take supper with the ladies. You must have some new members since last I was down.”

  “Indeed.” Muriel smiled graciously; the Ladies’ Association was her pride and joy. “We’ve done well this past year, but you’ll hear of our successes tomorrow.”

  Her gaze shifted, going past them as Hardacre came up, leading the three horses. Muriel looked at Caro. “If you’re heading home, Caro, perhaps you could ride beside the gig and we could go over the plans for the fete?”

  She nodded. “Why not?” Sensing Michael’s hand rising to touch her back, she quickly looked down and descended the steps. She started toward Calista, then realized that Muriel was watching everyone like a hawk; the last thing they needed was any question being raised in anyone’s mind about Michael and Elizabeth.

  Dragging in a breath, she swung around—to see Michael shaking hands with Edward and nodding politely to Elizabeth in farewell. Releasing Edward’s hand, Michael waved her on. “Come—I’ll lift you up.”

  Her smile felt weak, but she could hardly wait for Edward to lift Elizabeth up and then help her, too, not with Michael standing there offering. Steeling every nerve, outwardly calm, she walked to Calista’s side. Dragging in another breath, she held it, and turned.

  And found he was less than a foot away.

  He reached for her—and it was worse than she’d anticipated. Her nerves literally quaked. He was so much taller than she, her eyes were level with his collarbone; his shoulders were so wide, he blocked her off from the world.

  He gripped her waist and she felt weak, light-headed, as if his strength somehow drained hers.

  He hesitated, holding her between his hands. She felt oddly small, fragile, vulnera
ble. Captured. Her whole world condensed, drew in. She could feel her heart thudding in her throat.

  Then he lifted her, easily, and sat her in her saddle. His grip loosened; his hands slid slowly from about her waist. Reaching for the stirrup, he held it.

  She managed to thank him; her words sounded distant to her ears. She settled her boot in the stirrup, then fussed with her skirts. Finally managed to breathe, to swallow. Gathering her reins, she looked up. Smiled at Muriel. “Let’s be off, then.”

  Michael stepped back.

  Caro waved in his direction, then wheeled Calista to come up beside Muriel’s gig. Edward and Elizabeth waved, too, then sent their mounts to fall in behind the gig.

  Michael watched the little cavalcade until it passed out of sight. He remained for some minutes, staring at the gates, then turned on his heel and went inside.

  5

  At least he now knew why he needed to know more—a lot more—about Caro.

  Relaxed in his chair at the breakfast table the next morning, he wondered why he’d been so slow to correctly interpret the signs. Perhaps because it was Caro and he’d known her forever. Regardless, he was now fully cognizant of at least one of the emotions keeping him so intently focused on her.

  It had been a long time since he had, entirely of his own volition, without the slightest encouragement, lusted after a woman. Actively wanted her even though she was intent on running the other way.

  Or so he read Caro’s reaction. She’d felt the attraction, that spark that required no thought and asked no permissions; her response had been to avoid giving it a chance to strike, and if that wasn’t possible, then to pretend it hadn’t.

  From experience, he knew her tack wouldn’t work. As long as they remained in sufficient proximity to ensure they would meet and inevitably touch, the need would grow only more potent, the spark commensurately more powerful, until they let it burn.

  The only problem he could see in that was that the woman involved was Caro.

  Her reaction wasn’t a surprise. Unlike Ferdinand, he knew the correct interpretation of her nickname. The “Merry Widow” was, as such English nicknames sometimes were, a perverse expression. In Caro’s case, she was an outwardly merry widow in that she was a hostess of some note, but the real meaning was that she’d been chased by the best of them, yet had refused to be caught. Just as red-haired men were often called Bluey, she was, in reality, a severely chaste widow who never encouraged anyone to imagine otherwise.

  She was the opposite of what the term “Merry Widow” led the naive to suppose.

  Which meant he was in for a difficult and uncomfortable time of it, at least until he convinced her that her only option was one that would suit her as well as it would suit him.

  Savoring the last of his coffee, he considered how long convincing her might take. Considered the hurdles before him. To be the gentleman who tempted the Merry Widow enough to get into her bed, and her…

  A challenge indeed.

  It would be a diplomatic triumph of an unusual order, even if no one ever knew of his success. But they would, of course; that was part of his plan.

  He could pull it off; he was a politician born and bred, and such innate qualities were precisely those required. He just had to finesse his way past Caro’s defenses.

  And along the way, when he had her defenseless in his arms, he’d learn what it was that had so upset her, and if he could, put it right.

  Deeming it wise to let the day go by, to let her normal, natural confidence reassert itself and assure her she was safe, that he posed no threat to her and so didn’t need to be kept at a distance, he schooled himself to sit in his study and deal with the months’ worth of accounts and minor details his agent had dutifully left piled on his desk.

  Two hours later, he was steadily plodding through the pile when Carter tapped on the door and entered.

  “Mrs. Sutcliffe has called, sir.”

  He checked his memory. “Which Mrs. Sutcliffe?” Caro? Or one of Camden’s nieces-by-marriage?

  “Mrs. Caroline, sir. She’s in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you, Carter.” He rose, wondering, then inwardly shrugged. He’d learn soon enough.

  When he entered the drawing room, Caro was standing before the windows looking out over the front lawn. Sunbeams lanced through her cloud of frizzy hair, striking copper and red glints from the golden brown. Her gown was a pale blue a few shades darker than her eyes; fine and summer light, it clung to her figure.

  She heard him and turned, smiled.

  And he instantly knew she was a long way from believing him unthreatening. As usual, however, it was only instinct that told him so; Caro herself gave nothing away.

  “I hope you don’t mind—I’ve come to sound you out and pick your brains.”

  He returned her smile, waved her to the chaise. “How can I help?”

  Caro grasped the moment of crossing to the chaise, gathering her skirts and sinking gracefully down, then waiting for him to lounge, relaxed but attentive in the armchair facing her, to marshal her thoughts and dragoon her wits out of the morass of irrational panic they’d developed a habit of sinking into every time the possibility of Michael’s coming close to her loomed.

  She didn’t understand her sudden sensitivity; she could barely believe that after all her years of extensive worldly experience, she was now—here in deepest Hampshire—falling victim to such an affliction. Determined to conquer it, or at the very least ignore it, she clung to her pose of assured serenity. “I’ve decided to give a ball on the evening preceding the church fete. It occurred to me that with so many from London in the neighborhood, if we hold a ball, invite them all, and arrange to house them locally overnight, then they could spend the next day at the fete before heading off in the afternoon.”

  She paused, then added, “I suppose what I’m proposing is a condensed house party with the ball as its highlight and the fete as its extension.”

  Michael’s gaze remained on her face; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. After a moment, he asked, “So your underlying purpose is to use the ball to bolster attendance at the fete, especially with those down from London, which in turn will greatly increase local interest, thus ensuring the fete is a resounding success?”

  She smiled. “Precisely.” It was a delight to deal with someone who saw not just actions, but implications and outcomes. Of course, ensuring the fete’s success was not the ultimate purpose driving her latest project. After yesterday, both Elizabeth and Edward were adamant over bringing the situation with Michael to a head; they wanted to create some situation that would definitively demonstrate Elizabeth’s incapacity to adequately fill the role of Michael’s wife.

  Thus a major social event to be attended by numerous diplomatic and political personages, tied to a major local event. The organization required would be horrendous, and Elizabeth was, indeed, a mere apprentice in that regard.

  Caro, of course, could handle such a challenge without a qualm, and would; they were hoping the demonstration of her talents would focus Michael’s attention on Elizabeth’s lack of such highly evolved social skills.

  He was regarding her with what seemed to be faintly amused interest. “I’m sure you’re already halfway organized. How can I help?”

  “I was wondering if you would agree to put up some of the guests from farther afield for the night of the ball.” She didn’t wait for a reply, but artfully continued, “And I also wanted to ask your opinion on the guest list—do you think that little difficulty between the Russians and the Prussians has blown over? And, of course…”

  The conversational reins firmly in her grasp, she set out to create her field of battle.

  Michael let her rattle on as she would, increasingly certain her peripatetic discourse wasn’t as lacking in direction as it seemed. Regardless of her ultimate goal, her observations were accurate, often cannily acute; when she directed a specific question his way, and actually paused to give him a chance to answer, it was on a s
ubject that was a diplomatic minefield. Their ensuing comments evolved into a discussion of some depth.

  After a while, she rose; still talking, she paced, circling the chaise, then sank down onto it once more. He didn’t stir, but watched her, conscious of the intellectual challenge of dealing with her on more than one level simultaneously. Indeed, on more than two. He was perfectly aware there was more going on than the obvious, and equally certain she was determinedly ignoring at least one thread in their interaction.

  Finally, relaxed once more on the chaise, she spread her hands and asked directly, “Well, will you help?”

  He met her gaze. “On two conditions.”

  A sudden wariness slid behind her lovely eyes; she blinked and it was replaced by an expecting-to-be-amused smile. “Conditions? Good heavens! What?”

  He smiled, striving to make the expression as unthreatening as he could, not entirely sure he’d succeeded. “One—it’s too lovely a day to spend sitting inside. Let’s take this discussion on a stroll through the gardens. Two”—he held her gaze—“that you’ll stay for lunch.”

  She blinked, slowly; he was very sure she was, most definitely, wary of him physically. Of getting physically close. He knew of only one way to address such a problem, and she’d handed him the solution on a platter.

  Having set the stage herself, she couldn’t now not play; her smile deepening, she refocused on his face. “Very well—if you insist.”

  He fought to stop his smile from deepening. “Oh, I do.”

  She rose; so did he, but he turned aside to the bellpull to summon Carter and instruct him about luncheon, giving her the chance to escape onto the terrace.

  When he followed her out, she was standing at the top of the steps facing the front lawn. Her hands were clasped before her; her shoulders rose as she drew in a deep breath.

  He moved to stand beside her and she very nearly jumped. He met her eyes, offered his arm. “Let’s go across the lawn and through the shrubbery, and you can tell me how many guests, and whom, you think would best be quartered here.”