The Ideal Bride

Chapter 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 narrow 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, roues, 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 Geoffrey 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.

Both she and Ferdinand hurried across.

“There, there.” One of the Driscoll girls murmured. “Here, take my handkerchief.”

“You poor thing—how dreadful.” Seeing Caro approaching, the other sister stepped back.

Edward looked grim as he quickly stepped in, taking the arm of the wilting figure slumped over the rail.

“Oohhhh,” Elizabeth moaned, a sound of abject misery. Michael, on her other side, was supporting most of her weight.

Edward cast a speaking glance at Caro; she stared back at him. They hadn’t thought…

She blinked. Turned to Ferdinand. “Do you have a cabin—some place she can lie down?”

“Of course.” Ferdinand squeezed her shoulder. “I will have it prepared.”

“Wait!” Michael turned his head and spoke to Ferdinand. “Tell your captain to turn around. We’re now in the Solent—he needs to get back into calmer waters, and closer to shore.”

Caro realized the ride had become considerably more choppy; used to tipping decks—this was mild compared to the Atlantic—she hadn’t truly noticed when they’d emerged from the relatively protected reaches of Southampton Water and heeled southwest into the Solent.

Glancing at the limp figure Michael was holding upright, Ferdinand nodded curtly and left. On the way to the wheel, he called orders to one of his crew; the sailor scurried to open the doors to the companionway leading to the lower deck. Looking Caro’s way, he beckoned, called “Come, come” in Portuguese, then disappeared down the steep stairs.

Caro exchanged glances with Michael and Edward, then moved to the rail, taking Edward’s place; stroking Elizabeth’s back, she tried to look into her face. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll get you downstairs. Once you’re lying down, you won’t feel so poorly.”

Elizabeth gulped in air, tried to speak, then weakly shook her head and moaned again.

She slumped even lower. Michael tightened his hold. “She’s close to fainting. Here—stand back.”

He stooped, then lifted Elizabeth into his arms. He settled her, then nodded at Caro. “Lead the way. You’re right—she needs to be horizontal.‘

Getting Elizabeth—who truly was as good as unconscious—down the narrow stairs was no easy feat. With help from Caro and Edward, Michael managed it; once he gained the lower deck, Caro looked past him and called to Edward, who’d been helping from behind. “Cold water, a bowl, and some cloths.”

Grim-faced, Edward nodded. “I’ll get them.”

Caro turned and hurried ahead to hold the door to the stern cabin open. Michael angled his awkward burden through, then walked to the bunk bed the sailor had hurriedly made up, and laid Elizabeth down.

She moaned again. She was whiter than the proverbial sheet—her fine skin looked almost green.

“She lost her breakfast over the rail.” Michael stepped back, met Caro’s worried eyes. “Is there anything else you need?”

She bit her lip, then shook her head. “Not at present—just that water.”

He nodded and turned for the door. “Call me when she wants to come up again—she won’t be able to manage the stairs without help.”

Distractedly, Caro murmured her thanks. Leaning over Elizabeth, she brushed tendrils of damp hair off her forehead. She heard the door softly close; glancing around, she confirmed the sailor had left, too. Gently, she folded Elizabeth’s forearm over her chest.

Elizabeth moaned again. “It’s all right, sweetheart—I’m going to loosen your laces.”

Edward brought the water in an ewer with a basin; Caro met him at the door and took them. “Is she all right?” he asked.

She will be.“ Caro grimaced. ”It never occurred to me she might be seasick.“

With a worried glance, Edward left. Caro bathed Elizabeth’s face and hands, then eased her up so she could sip from a glass. She was still very pale, but her skin no longer felt quite so clammy.

She sank back on the pillows with a sigh and a little shiver.

“Just sleep.” Unwinding her shawl, Caro draped it over Elizabeth’s shoulders and chest, then brushed the pale curls from her forehead. “I’ll be here.”

She didn’t need to look out of the portholes set across the stern to know the yacht had heeled and turned. The chop and slap of the Solent’s waters had faded; the hull was once more riding smoothly, slowly gliding back up the estuary.

Elizabeth dozed. Caro sat in the cabin’s only chair. After a time, she rose and stretched, then crossed to the row of portholes. She studied the catches, then opened one, pushing it wide. A faint breeze drifted in, stirring the stale air in the cabin. She opened two more of the five round windows, then heard a rattle and a great splash.

Glancing at the narrow bunk, she saw Elizabeth hadn’t stirred. Peering out, she glimpsed the shore. The captain had dropped anchor. Presumably lunch would be served soon.

She debated, but decided against leaving Elizabeth. With a sigh, she sank back onto the chair.

Sometime later, a soft tap sounded on the door. Elizabeth slept on; crossing the cabin, Caro opened the door. Michael stood in the corridor holding a tray.

“Campbell picked out what he thought you and Elizabeth would like. How is she?”

“Still sleeping.” Caro reached to take the tray.

Michael gestured her back. “It’s heavy.”

With her shawl covering her, Elizabeth was decent enough; Caro stepped back. Michael carried the tray to the table; she followed, studying the plates as he set the tray down.

“Once she wakes, you should try to get her to eat something.”

She glanced at him, then grimaced. “I’ve never been seasick— have you?‘

Michael shook his head. “But I’ve seen plenty of others who were. She’ll feel weak and woozy when she awakes. Now that we’re back in calmer waters, eating something will help.”

Caro nodded, looked back at Elizabeth.

He hesitated, then said, “Geoffrey’s a trifle queasy, too.”

Caro turned back to him, eyes widening in concern.

“That’s why he hasn’t been down to ask about Elizabeth. He’s not as badly affected as she—he’ll be better off in the open air.”

A frown creased her brow; he suppressed an urge to run his thumb over her forehead and ease it away—squeezed her shoulder lightly instead. “Don’t worry about Geoffrey—Edward and I will keep an eye on him.” With a nod, he indicated Elizabeth. “You’ve enough on your hands.”

Caro followed his nod, remained looking at Elizabeth. He hesitated, then turned away. As he opened the door, he heard Caro’s soft “Thank you.” Saluting her, he stepped out and softly closed the door.

Back on the main deck, he joined the other guests around the tables Ferdinand’s crew had set up to display the delicacies of an alfresco meal. He chatted with General Kleber, who’d spent the previous day touring Bucklers Hard, the center of the local shipbuilding industry, then moved on to speak with the duke and the count, furthering his understanding of their country’s views on a number of pertinent trade issues.

Once the meal was over and the tables cleared away, the ladies gathered behind the forecastle to gossip. Most of the men drifted to the rails, finding spots to lounge and enjoy the sunshine. The breeze, previously brisk, had faded to a gentle zephyr; the soft slap of rippling waves was punctuated by the raucous cries of gulls.

A postprandial peace settled over the yacht.

Michael found himself at the stern, for the moment alone. Ferdinand, deprived of Caro’s company, had initially sulked. Now he’d cornered Edward Campbell; the pair were lounging against a capstan. Michael would have wagered a considerable sum that Ferdinand was trying to learn more about Caro via her secretary. In that, he wished him luck; despite his relative youth, Campbell seemed well up to snuff, experienced enough and sufficiently devoted to Caro to ensure he revealed nothing useful.

Drawing in a breath, filling his lungs with the tangy air, Michael turned his back on the rest of the yacht and leaned on the stern rail. The junction of Southampton Water and the Solent lay some distance away; beyond, the Isle of Wight rose, a silhouette across the horizon.

“Here—try some of this. It’s quite bland.”

Caro’s voice. He glanced down, and noticed the open portholes. Elizabeth must be awake.

“I’m not sure…”

“Try it—don’t argue. Michael said you should eat, and I’m sure he’s right. You don’t want to swoon again.”

“Oh, heavens! How on earth am I to face him—or any of them? How mortifying.”

“Nonsense!” Caro spoke bracingly, but it sounded as if she, too, were eating. “When things like this happen, the correct way to handle it is to create no further fuss. It was unforeseen, nothing could be done to avoid it, it happened, and now it’s over. One deals with it in the most straightforward manner and gives oneself no airs, nor must you appear to be making yourself interesting because of your illness.”

Silence, punctuated by the clink of cutlery.

“So…” Elizabeth’s voice seemed to have gained some strength; it sounded almost normal. “I should simply smile and thank people, and…”

“And put it behind you. Yes, that’s right.”

“Oh.”

Another pause; this time, Caro broke it. “You know, being subject to seasickness is not a great recommendation for a diplomat’s wife.”

Her tone was musing, considering.

Michael raised his brows. Recalled his earlier suspicion that Caro knew of his interest in Elizabeth.

“Well, we’ll just have to make sure Edward fixes his sights somewhere other than the Foreign Office.”

Michael blinked. Edward?

“Perhaps the Home Office. Or maybe under the Chancellor.”

He heard Caro shift.

“We really must give the point some serious thought.”

Her voice faded as she moved further from the portholes; she and Elizabeth continued to discuss this and that, but he heard nothing more about diplomats’ wives and the requirements and criteria for same.

Straightening, he strolled to the starboard corner, propped a hip ‘

against the side, fixed his gaze on the shore, and tried to fathom just what was going on. He’d thought Caro knew of his tack regarding Elizabeth and had been aiding him. Yet clearly she recognized and actively supported a connection between Elizabeth and Campbell.

He stopped his thoughts—focused on what he felt about Elizabeth being Campbell’s wife instead of his. All he could summon was a mild observation that Elizabeth and Edward might indeed suit.

Grimacing, he folded his arms and leaned one shoulder against a nearby rope. That, assuredly, was not what he would feel had he been seriously set on winning Elizabeth to wife, if he’d felt convinced she was the wife he needed. He might not be a Cynster, yet if he’d been truly engaged by the desire to secure Elizabeth as his wife, his reaction would be considerably more profound.

As things stood, he felt far more exercised about Ferdinand’s pursuit of Caro than about Campbell’s apparent success with her niece. That, however, wasn’t what was pricking him.

Looking back on the last three days, ever since he’d returned home and set out to evaluate Elizabeth—or more specifically from the moment Caro had so dramatically reentered his life—matters had progressed smoothly with no real effort from him; the situations and opportunities he’d needed and wanted had simply appeared.

Looking back… he felt increasingly certain Caro had been playing fairy godmother, waving her wand and managing the scene, yet her touch was so light, so masterly, it was impossible to be absolutely sure. He had no doubt she was an accomplished player of diplomatic and political games.

The question was: What sort of game had she been playing with him?

He might not be a Cynster, but he was an Anstruther-Wetherby. Being manipulated had never sat well with him.

Once the anchor was hauled in and the yacht was once more slowly tacking up the western shore, at Elizabeth’s insistence Caro left her resting and climbed the narrow companionway back up to the main deck.

Stepping into the open air, she lifted her head and filled her lungs; lips curving, lids at half-mast against the sinking sun, she turned—and walked into a hard male body.

One she’d connected with before; even as the certainty over who it was registered, she fleetingly wondered why, with him, her senses sim-P’y seemed to know. More, why they leapt, hungry to experience the solid, powerful strength of him, greedy for his nearness. She’d been sliding her hand onto his arm and stepping close for days—she’d told herself she needed the nearness to capture his attention and direct it, but had that been her only reason?

She’d certainly never craved close contact with any man before.

Looking up, she smiled in easy apology. She would have stepped back, but his arm suddenly tightened about her waist, supporting her, gathering her close as if she’d been in danger of falling.

She gripped his arms. Her heart lurched; her pulse accelerated.

Eyes widening, she looked into the blue of his—and for one minute couldn’t think, wasn’t truly sure what was going on…

They were intent, those sky blue eyes of his; they searched hers— she returned the favor. To her surprise, she couldn’t fathom what was passing through his mind.

Then his lips curved easily; his hold on her slackened and he set her on her feet. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course.” She could barely breathe, but smiled her thanks. “I didn’t see you there—the sun was in my eyes.”

“I was just coming to ask how Elizabeth was.‘’ He waved toward the bow. ”Geoffrey’s growing anxious.“

“In that case I’d better go and set his mind at rest.” Resisting the urge to claim Michael’s arm, she turned.

Only to have him offer his arm. Inwardly shrugging, she took it in her usual trusting, close, and confiding way, the way she’d been dealing with him for the past days. Regardless of her susceptibilities, until he definitely lost interest in Elizabeth it would be wise to maintain that level of interaction—the better to steer his perceptions.

“Has she recovered?”

They strolled down the deck. “She’s considerably better, but I suspect it’ll be best if she remains in the cabin until we reach the landing stage.” She met his gaze, could read no overt concern there, nothing more than polite inquiry. “If you could lend her your arm then, I know she’ll be grateful.”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

Michael steered her to where the others sat grouped in the lee of the forecastle. For most, the day had gone well—even Geoffrey had enjoyed the outing, his only anxiety being Elizabeth’s well-being. Caro assured everyone Elizabeth was largely recovered, with her usual tact smoothed over the incident, then refocused the conversation away from Elizabeth’s indisposition.

Leaning against the yacht’s side, he watched her. Wondered. She refused Ferdinand’s offer to stroll about the deck, settling instead between his aunt and the duchess to exchange remininscences of the Portuguese court.

An hour later, the yacht was tied up at the landing stage. The com-pany disembarked; with expressions of goodwill and thanks all around, they piled into the waiting carriages.

Elizabeth and Caro were the last of the ladies to attempt the gangplank. Together with Caro and Edward, he went down and helped Elizabeth, still weak but determined to maintain some dignity, up the stairs to the main deck.

At the head of the gangplank, Elizabeth paused and very prettily thanked Ferdinand, apologizing for the inconvenience she’d caused. Caro stood beside her; waiting behind Caro, Michael noted that the appropriate words came readily to Elizabeth’s tongue. Caro was not tense or expectant; she wasn’t anticipating any need to have to step in and assist.

Ferdinand bowed and made the best of it, smiling and gallantly waving aside Elizabeth’s apologies, his dark gaze shifting to Caro’s face as he did.

Then Edward took Elizabeth’s hand and stepped onto the gangplank; Elizabeth followed unsteadily. Caro stepped aside and let Michael move past her; he followed Elizabeth closely, one hand hovering at her waist, steadying her, ready to catch her if she overbalanced. The tide was in; the rise and fall of the waves at the jetty was greater than it had been that morning.

Slowly progressing at Elizabeth’s heels, over her shoulder Michael saw Edward’s face every time he glanced at Elizabeth. His concern was open, and clearly personal. Although he couldn’t see Elizabeth’s expression, Michael sensed she clung to Edward’s support far more than his own.

Any thought that he’d misinterpreted and there wasn’t some definite understanding between the two vanished.

And if he could see it, Caro certainly had.

The necessity of his assisting with Elizabeth had left Caro to Ferdinand’s care. When Edward, Elizabeth, then he stepped off the gangplank and onto the jetty, he left Edward to see Elizabeth to the carriage; Geoffrey was already in it. Turning back, he waited at the gangplank’s end, and offered his hand to Caro when she reached him.

She gripped firmly, using his support as she stepped down to his side; he didn’t wait for her to take his arm but placed her hand on his sleeve and covered it with his as she turned to say her good-byes to Ferdinand.

Who was clearly irritated at being denied his moment alone with her.

His eyes met Michael’s, his gaze hard, challenging. But he had to maintain a mask of civility—more, he was given no option but to accept Caro’s definition of him as an amusing acquaintance, nothing more.

Exactly how she accomplished it, Michael couldn’t have said, yet her decree was there in the tone of her voice, in the light smile she bestowed along with her gracious nod of farewell. Both he and Ferdinand had no difficulty interpreting her message. Ferdinand had to pretend to accept it; he didn’t, however, like it.

Michael, on the other hand, wholeheartedly approved.

As he walked with Caro along the landing stage to where their carriage, the last remaining, stood waiting, he wondered if, perhaps, a word in the handsome Portuguese’s ear—a simple gentleman-to-gentleman explanation of the truth behind Caro’s nickname—might not be wise.

Despite Caro’s consummate performance, Ferdinand hadn’t given up.