The Ideal Bride

Chapter 4

The next morning at eleven, Michael set out to ride to Bramshaw House. Atlas, eager over once again being ridden every day, was frisky; Michael let the powerful gelding shake off his fidgets in a light canter along the lane.

He hadn’t made any arrangements to call on the Bramshaw House household. The drive back from Totton yesterday had been subdued; Elizabeth, unnaturally pale, had remained quiet and withdrawn. He and Edward had dropped back, letting the carriage roll ahead, leaving Elizabeth in relative privacy.

They’d parted at the top of Bramshaw lane, yet he’d continued to brood on Caro’s performance. The suspicion that she’d manipulated him, subtly steered him in the direction she’d wished while he’d imagined his direction and hers were the same, had grown, had pricked, prodded, and nagged at him. He’d spent the evening thinking of her, reliving their exchanges.

Normally, in any political or diplomatic sphere he’d have had his guard up, but with Caro it simply hadn’t occurred to him that he might need to guard against her.

Betrayal was too strong a word for what he felt. Irritation, yes, lent an edge by the definite prick to his pride she’d delivered. Given he was now sure quite aside from any manipulation that he definitely did not need or want Elizabeth as his wife, such a response was perhaps a touch irrational, yet it was, quite certainly, how he felt.

Of course, he didn’t know absolutely that Caro had exercised her manipulative wiles on him.

There was, however, one way to find out.

He found Caro, Elizabeth, and Edward in the family parlor. Caro looked up, her surprise at seeing him immediately overlayed by transparent delight. Beaming at him, she rose.

He grasped the hand she offered. “I rode over to tell Geoffrey we’ve unblocked the stream through the wood.”

“Oh, dear—he’s out.”

“So Catten told me—I’ve left a message.” He turned to greet Elizabeth and Edward, then met Caro’s eyes. “I—”

“It’s such a glorious day.” She gestured to the wide windows, to the brilliant sunshine bathing the lawns. She smiled at him, stunningly assured. “You’re right—it’s a perfect morning for a ride. We could visit the Rufus Stone—it’s been years since I last saw it, and Edward never has.”

There was a fractional pause, then Elizabeth suggested, “We could take a picnic.”

Caro nodded eagerly. “Indeed, why not?” Swinging on her heel, she headed for the bellpull.

“I’ll organize the horses while you’re changing your gowns,” Edward offered.

“Thank you.” Caro beamed at him, then looked at Michael. Her expression sobered as if she’d been struck by a sudden thought. “That is, if you’re willing to spend your day gallivanting about the countryside?”

He met her wide earnest eyes, noted again how artlessly open her silvery blue gaze seemed—and how, if one looked deeper, there were layers, refracting, diffracting, in those fascinating eyes. Anyone who took Caro at face value—as a passably pretty woman of no particular power—would be committing a grave error.

He hadn’t intended going for a ride, certainly hadn’t suggested it, yet… he smiled, as charmingly beguiling as she. “Nothing would please me more.” Let her continue to think she was in the saddle, with the reins firmly in her hands.

“Excellent!” She turned as Catten appeared at the door.

She quickly gave orders for a picnic lunch to be packed. Elizabeth slipped upstairs to change her gown; when Caro turned to him, he smiled easily. “Go and change—I’ll help Campbell get the horses. We’ll meet you on the front steps.”

He watched her go, confident and assured, then followed Edward from the parlor.

Upstairs, Caro scrambled into her riding habit, then sighed with relief when Elizabeth, already correctly attired, slipped into her room. “Good—I was about to send Fenella to waylay you. Now remember, it’s important you don’t overplay your hand—don’t try to appear too awkward or obtuse. In fact…”

Frowning, she tugged the tightly fitted bodice of her maroon habit straight. “I really think we’d be better served by you being yourself as far as possible today. Riding and a picnic without any others present is such an easy, informal affair. If you’re truly silly, it’ll appear too strange—there won’t be any camouflage.”

Elizabeth looked confused. “I thought you suggested a ride so I’d have another opportunity to demonstrate my unsuitability? He hasn’t yet changed his mind, has he?”

“I don’t think so.” Caro picked up her gloves and quirt. “I suggested a ride because I didn’t want him asking to take you for a walk in the gardens.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth followed her into the corridor; she lowered her voice. “Is that what he was going to ask?”

“That, or something like it. Why else is he here?” Caro tugged on her gloves. “I’d wager my pearls he was going to ask to speak with either you or me alone, and in neither case would that be a good idea. The last thing we need is to let him engage us in any private discussion.”

She led the way down the stairs.

Michael and Edward were waiting before the front steps, each holding his horse and one other. Josh, the stable lad, was tying the bags in which their picnic had been packed to the saddles. To Caro’s surprise, Michael held the reins of her gray mare, Calista, not those of Elizabeth’s Orion.

The sight made her even more wary; if Michael was intent on speaking with her, rather than seeking further time with Elizabeth… the only points he was likely to discuss with her were Elizabeth’s diplomatic experience, and how she thought Elizabeth would respond to an offer from him.

Hiding her speculation, determined to divert him from progressing along such lines, she went down the steps, an easy smile on her lips.

Michael watched her approach. Leaving Atlas’s reins dangling, he draped those of the gray mare over the pommel as he moved to the mare’s side. He waited, reached for Caro as she neared. Closing his hands about her waist, he gripped, drew her a fraction closer, preparing to lift her to her saddle; her gloved hand came to rest on his arm. She looked up.

Suddenly—unmistakably—desire flared, like heated silk caressing bare skin. Simultaneously, he felt the quiver that rippled through her, that made her breath catch, made her silver eyes, for just one heartbeat, glaze.

She blinked, refocused on his face—let her lips curve as if nothing had happened.

But she still wasn’t breathing.

Eyes locked with hers, he tightened his grip—again felt her control quake.

He lifted her to her saddle, held her stirrup; after an instant’s hesitation—disorientation, he knew—she slid her boot into place. Without looking up, without meeting her eyes, he crossed to Atlas, caught his reins, and swung up to the saddle.

Only then did he manage to fill his lungs.

Elizabeth and Edward were already mounted; chaos momentarily reigned as they all turned their horses toward the gate. He was about to turn to Caro—to meet her gaze, to see—

“Come on! Let’s be off!” With a laugh and a wave, she rode past him.

Laughing in return, Elizabeth and Edward set off in her wake.

For an instant, he hesitated, suppressing an urge to glance back at the steps… but he knew he hadn’t imagined it.

Eyes narrowing, he tapped his heels to Atlas’s flanks, and followed.

Caro. He no longer had the slightest interest in Elizabeth. However, when reaching the main road, Caro slowed and they caught up and proceeded in a group; it was abundantly clear she intended to ignore that unexpected moment.

And his reaction to her.

And even more hers to him.

Caro laughed, smiled, and gave the performance of her life, gaily enjoying the summer day, delighting in the cloudless sky, in the larks that swooped high above, in the tang of cut grass rising from nearby fields basking in the sunshine. Never before had she been so glad of the discipline the years had taught her; she felt rocked to her soul, as if an earthquake had struck—she had to shield herself quickly and absolutely.

As they cantered down the road to Cadnam, then turned south onto the leafy lane that led to the site where William II had been struck down by an arrow while hunting in the forest, her heart gradually slowed to its normal rhythm, the vise about her lungs gradually eased.

She was aware of Michael’s gaze touching her face, not once but many times. Aware that behind his easygoing, amenable, ready-to-enjoy-the-beauties-of-the-day expression, he was puzzled. And not entirely pleased.

That last was good. She wasn’t aux anges over that unlooked-for development either. She wasn’t at all sure what had caused such a potent and unsettling reaction, but instinct warned her that it, and therefore he, was an experience she’d be wise to avoid.

Given that he was interested in Elizabeth, the latter shouldn’t prove at all difficult.

Edward was on her left, Elizabeth on her right; just ahead, the lane narrowed. “Edward.” Checking Calista, she caught Edward’s eye and dropped back. “Did you get a chance to ask the countess about Senor Rodrigues?”

She’d chosen a topic that Michael would have no interest in, yet before Edward could react and drop back to join her, Michael had.

“I take it the countess is an acquaintance of old?”

She glanced at him, then nodded. “I’ve known her for years. She’s a member of the inner court—very influential.”

“You were in Lisbon for what? Ten years?”

“More or less.” Determined to steer matters back on track, she looked ahead and smiled at Elizabeth. “Elizabeth visited us on several occasions.”

Michael’s gaze went to Edward. “Over the last few years?”

“Yes.” Caro saw the direction of his glance; before she could decide if he actually meant anything by his comment—had deduced anything she’d rather he didn’t—he looked at her and captured her gaze.

“I imagine the life of an ambassador’s wife would have been one of constant and giddy dissipation. You must feel quite adrift.”

She bridled, felt her eyes flash. “I assure you the life of an ambassador’s wife is hardly a succession of relaxing entertainments.” She lifted her chin, felt her color, along with her temper, rise. “A constant succession of events, yes, but—” She broke off, then glanced at him.

Why on earth was she reacting to such an unsubtle jibe? Why had he, of all men, made it? She continued rather more circumspectly. “As you must be aware, the organization of an ambassador’s social schedule falls largely to his wife. During the years of our marriage, that was my role.”

“I would have thought Campbell would have handled much of it.”

She felt Edward’s glance, his offer to intervene; she ignored it. “No—Edward was Camden’s aide. He assisted with legal, governmental, and diplomatic details. However, the arena in which most important decisions are actually made, the venues at which such matters are most directly influenced is, as it always has been, in embassy drawing rooms, ballrooms, and salons. In other words, while the ambassador and his aides may execute the battle plan, it’s the ambassador’s wife who secures for them the field on which they may maneuver.”

Looking ahead, she drew a calming breath, reached for her customarily unshakable social poise, surprised that it had temporarially deserted her. There was, after all, an obvious reason for Michael’s probing. “If rumor speaks true and you’re shortly to find yourself at the Foreign Office, you’ll need to remember that without the right wife, an ambassador, no matter how able, will be hamstrung.”

Coolly, she turned her head and met his blue eyes.

His lips curved, but his self-deprecating smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been told the same holds true for government ministers.”

She blinked.

Michael looked forward, the curve of his lips deepening as he saw Elizabeth and Edward had pulled ahead; the lane had narrowed, allowing only two horses abreast. “Everyone knows,” he murmured, voice low so only Caro would hear, “that Camden Sutcliffe was a master ambassador.”

He brought his gaze back to her face. “Doubtless he understood—” He broke off, startled to see some hurt, some fleeting expression so painful it stopped his breath, flash through her silver eyes. What he’d been about to say vanished from his head; he’d been baiting her, wanting to provoke some reaction and learn more…

“Caro?” He reached for her hand. “Are you all right?”

She refocused, abruptly shifted her mount away, avoiding his hand, and looked ahead. “Yes. Perfectly.”

Her voice was cool, distant; he didn’t—couldn’t bring himself to— test her again. Although her tone was even, he sensed it had cost her an effort to achieve it. He felt he should apologize, but wasn’t sure for what. Before he could think of any way to put right whatever had gone wrong, Edward and Elizabeth kicked up their mounts and drew ahead as the lane opened into a wide clearing.

Tapping her heels to her mare’s flanks, Caro went forward to join them; increasingly frustrated, he sent Atlas after her.

The clearing was as wide as a field, dotted here and there with oaks. Close to the middle stood the Rufus Stone, a monument erected by Earl De La Warr some eighty years before to mark the spot where William II, due to his red hair known as Rufus, had fallen on August 2, 1100. Although commemorating a pivotal moment in history, the stone, inscribed with the bare facts, stood relatively unadorned or in any way celebrated, surrounded by the deep stillness of the forest.

Edward and Elizabeth had reined in under the spreading branches of an ancient oak. Edward dismounted and tied his reins to a branch. He turned, but before he could go to where Elizabeth waited to be helped from her saddle, Caro rode up; with an imperious gesture—for her, out of character—she summoned Edward to her side.

Without hesitation, Edward went.

Reining Atlas in, Michael dismounted, watched Edward lift Caro to the ground. Securing Atlas’s reins, he went to Elizabeth and lifted her down.

Smiling brightly, Caro pointed to the stone and made some comment to Edward; they set out across the sward toward it. With an easy smile for Elizabeth, Michael fell in beside her as they followed the other two to view the monument.

That moment set the pattern for the following hour. Caro seemed bent on enjoyment; she smiled, laughed, and encouraged them all to do the same. So subtle was her performance—never overdone, totally believable with not so much as a word to jar anyone’s suspicions— Michael had to admit it was instinct alone that insisted it was a performance, all for show.

After admiring the monument and revisiting the tale of how William had been slain by an arrow fired by Walter Tyrrell, one of William’s hunt-ing party, and how that had led to the younger Henry’s seizing the throne over his older brother, Robert, and after exclaiming over how the loosing of a single arrow had resounded through the centuries, they retired to spread a rug and investigate the morsels packed in the saddlebags.

Caro directed them as was her wont. He behaved as she wished, more to placate her, to calm her, than for any other reason. Deploying his own mask, he smiled and charmed Elizabeth, sat by her side— opposite Caro—and talked to her of whatever she wished. Today, Elizabeth didn’t try to convince him she was a featherbrain interested only in balls and dancing, yet although he sensed she was being her genuine self, and was far more attractive without her assumed traits, he was acutely aware she did not possess sufficient depth or complexity in her character to fix his interest, not on any level.

Throughout the interlude, from behind his mask, his attention remained riveted on Caro.

Across the rug, separated from him and Elizabeth by the assembled feast, she and Edward talked easily, exchanging comments with the rapport of old friends. He judged Edward to be about four years Caro’s junior; although he watched closely, he detected not the smallest hint of any loverlike connection. Campbell clearly admired and respected Caro’s abilities; more than any other person, he would have seen the evidence on which to base such an assessment. In Michael’s experience, political and diplomatic aides were the shrewdest and most accurate judges of their masters’ talents.

Edward’s attitude to Caro, and the impression Michael received that he viewed her as a mentor and was happy with, indeed felt grateful for, the opportunity to learn from her, dovetailed with the picture Michael himself was forming of Caro.

That, however, was not what he was waiting to learn, not why he remained so intensely focused on her.

Something he’d said had hurt her, and she’d retreated behind the highly polished persona she showed to the world.

It was, he reminded himself as he searched for cracks and found none, a persona she’d perfected over a decade under the most exacting circumstances. Like a highly polished metal mask, that facade was impenetrable; it gave nothing away.

By the time they packed up the remnants of their feast and shook out the rug, he’d accepted that the only way he would learn more about Caro was if she consented to tell him. Or consented to let him see her as she truly was.

He mentally paused, wondering why learning more about her, the real Caro who hid behind the mask, was suddenly so vitally important. No answer came, yet…

They reached the horses and milled about, retying the saddlebags. Caro was having difficulties; he circled behind her intending to help— her mare shifted, bumping Caro back—into him.

Her back met his chest, her bottom his thighs.

His hands went to her waist, instinctively gripping and steadying her against him. She stiffened; her breath had caught. He released her and stepped back, acutely aware of his own reaction.

“Whoops! Sorry.” She smiled up at him ingenuously but didn’t meet his eyes as, moving to her side, he reached up to take the laces she was struggling to tie.

She drew her hands away too swiftly, but he caught the laces before they unraveled.

“Thank you.”

He kept his gaze on the laces as he tied them. “That should hold it.”

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 remem-

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, vulnerable. 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.