Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

And they were happy. Deeply, powerfully content.

Caro set down her cup, reached for another scone, and asked Honoria who else was in town; Honoria had confirmed that Michael had explained the real reason for their presence in the capital. “In order to learn whatever we can, we must make an effort to be seen.”

Honoria raised her brows. “In that case, Therese Osbaldestone came up two days ago. A select gathering has been summoned to attend her tomorrow for morning tea.” She grinned. “You should come with me.”

Caro met Honoria’s eyes. “You know perfectly well she’ll pounce on me and lecture me. You’re just trying to divert her attention.”

Honoria opened her eyes wide, spread her hands. “Of course. What are friends for, after all?”

Caro laughed.

Devil and Michael rose; she and Honoria turned to view them inquiringly.

Devil grinned. “I’ll return your late husband’s will. While my people couldn’t find anything significant in it, there are a number of matters I need to clarify with Michael, so if you’ll excuse us, we’ll retire to my study.”

Caro found herself smiling and inclining her head—even while her mind retreaded his words and found no request for permission in them. But by then, the door was closing. Looking at Honoria, she raised a quizzical brow. “Tell me—were those ‘matters’ to be clarified to do with the will, or something else entirely?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Devil and Michael share other interests; however, I, too, suspect those matters are most likely questions about Camden’s will.” Honoria shrugged. “No matter. I’ll get it out of Devil later, and you can drag the information from Michael.

Rising, she waved Caro up. “Come—I want to show you the other half of my life.”

Caro rose. The doors to the terrace were open; she could hear the shrill laughter of children playing on the lawns beyond. Linking her arm in Honoria’s, she strolled with her outside. “How many?”

“Three.”

The satisfaction and deep happiness that rang in Honoria’s voice slipped under Caro’s guard, and touched her. She glanced at Honoria, but she was looking ahead. Love and pride glowed in her face.

Caro followed her gaze to where three children romped on the lush lawn. Two brown-haired young boys held wooden swords; under the watchful gaze of two nursemaids, they were staging a fight. One of the nursemaids juggled a toddler, a dark-haired poppet, on her knee.

Honoria steered her down the steps. “Sebastian—sometimes known as Earith—is nearly five, Michael is three, and Louisa is one.”

Caro smiled. “You have been busy.”

“No, Devil’s been busy—I’ve been occupied.” Not even her laughter could disguise Honoria’s joy.

The dark-haired poppet saw them and waved chubby arms. “Mama!”

The demand was imperious. They walked that way, then Honoria lifted her daughter into her arms. The child cooed—literally—wrapped her arms about her mother’s neck, and snuggled her curly head onto Honoria’s shoulder. Her wide, pale green eyes, impossibly long- and lushlylashed, remained fixed—openly inquisitive—on Caro.

“Contrary to all appearances”—Honoria squinted down at her daughter—“this is the dangerous one. She’s already got her father wrapped about her little finger, and when her brothers aren’t busy fighting each other, they’re her knights to command.”

Caro grinned. “A very sensible young lady.”

Honoria chuckled, gently jigging Louisa. “She’ll do.”

At that moment, a wail rent the air. “Oowww! You did that on purpose!”

All eyes deflected to the would-be swordsmen; they’d progressed further down the lawn. Michael was rolling on the grass holding his knee.

Sebastian stood over him, a scowl on his face. “I didn’t hit you there—that would be a foul blow. It was your own silly sword—you stuck yourself with the hilt!”

“Didn’t!”

The nursemaids hovered, unsure whether to intervene, given that their charges had not yet come to blows.

Honoria took one look at her eldest son’s face—and untangled Louisa and thrust her into Caro’s arms. “Here—hold her. Any minute now a deadly insult is going to be uttered—and then it’ll have to be avenged!”

Left with no option, Caro hefted Louisa, a warm, resilient bundle, into her arms.

Honoria walked quickly down the lawn. “Hold hard, you two! Let’s just see what’s going on here.”

“Prrrt.”

Caro refocused on Louisa. Unlike her behavior with Honoria, the little girl sat up in Caro’s arms and stared into her face.

“Prrrt,” she said again, chubby fingers not very steadily pointing to Caro’s eyes. Then the tiny fingers touched her cheeks. Louisa leaned close, peering at first one eye, then the other.

She clearly found them fascinating.

“You, my sweet, have very pretty eyes, too,” Caro informed her. They were her father’s eyes, yet not—a similar shade, yet softer, more beguiling… oddly familiar. Caro searched her memory, then realized. She smiled. “You have your grandmother’s eyes.”

Louisa blinked at her, then lifted her gaze to Caro’s hair. A huge, delighted smile wreathed Louisa’s face. “Prrrtttt!”

She reached for the corona of frizzy golden brown; Caro tensed to feel a tug—instead, the tiny hands touched gently, patting, then lacing lightly through. Louisa’s face filled with wonder, big eyes wide as she stiffened her pudgy fingers and drew strands free, marveling…

Caro knew she should stop her—her hair was wayward enough as it was—yet… she couldn’t. She could only watch, her heart turning over, as the little girl explored, curious and enthralled.

The wonder of discovery lit the small, vivid face, glowed in her eyes.

Caro fought, tried so hard to keep the thought from forming, but it wouldn’t be held down. Would she ever have a child like this—hold a child of her own like this—and witness again this simple joy, be touched by such open, innocent pleasure?

Children had never been part of the equation of her marriage. Although she was close to her nieces and nephews, she’d rarely seen them as babies, or even as young children—she couldn’t recall carrying any of them, not even at Louisa’s age.

She hadn’t thought of children of her own—hadn’t allowed herself to; there’d been no point. Yet the warm weight of Louisa in her arms opened a well of longing she hadn’t until then realized she possessed.

“Thank you.” Honoria returned. “War has been averted and peace restored.” She reached for Louisa.

Caro gave her up, conscious of a reluctant tug—made all the stronger by Louisa, who made protesting noises and leaned back toward her until Honoria allowed her to place her little hands on Caros face and plant a damp kiss on her cheek.

“Prrttt!” Louisa said as, satisfied, she turned back to Honoria.

Honoria smiled. “She thinks you’re pretty.”

“Ah.” Caro nodded.

Bootsteps on stone had them looking toward the house; Devil and Michael had come out onto the terrace. The boys saw them; with whoops, they pelted past, swords waving, charging up to the terrace and male company.

Smiling indulgently, Honoria glanced back, checked that the nursemaids were gathering the scattered toys, then, Louisa in her arms, together with Caro started back up the gently sloping lawn.

As she paced alongside, Caro tried to rid herself of—or at least suppress—the thought that had taken up residence in her mind. Marrying just to have children was surely as bad as marrying just to gain a hostess. But she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at Louisa, secure and settled in Honoria’s arms.

The little girl’s eyes were wide, her gaze open, yet intent, not serious, yet seeing… Caro remembered again why those eyes seemed familiar. Old eyes, knowing eyes, ageless and all-seeing.

Drawing in a breath, she looked up as they reached the steps to the terrace. She murmured to Honoria as they ascended, “You’re right— she’s the dangerous one.”

Honoria only smiled. Her gaze fell on her eldest, standing by his father’s side, relating some tale of male significance. Michael was talking with his namesake. She made a mental note to give orders that they could have extra dessert tonight—and Louisa, too, of course.

She couldn’t have managed their recent scene better if she’d tried.

VV hat did Devil have to say about Camden’s will?“ Caro swiveled on the carriage seat so she could see Michael’s face.

He glanced at her, smiled faintly. “The house was left to you outright, in your name, and doesn’t revert to Camden’s estate or anyone else on your death—it would go to your heirs.”

She sat back. “My heirs… that’s Geoffrey, Augusta, and Angela, who definitely aren’t trying to kill me. So there’s no reason buried in Camden’s will for anyone to want me dead.”

“Not directly, no. However, there were an unusual number of bequests to unrelated individuals. Devil asked if you’d mind if he had two of his cousins quietly look over the legatees.”

She frowned. “Which cousins? And why?”

“Gabriel and Lucifer.”

“Who?”

Michael had to stop and think. “Rupert and Alasdair Cynster.”

Caro cast her eyes heavenward. “Such nicknames.”

“Appropriate, or so I’ve been told.”

“Indeed? And how are these two supposed to help us?”

“Gabriel is the Cynsters’ investment expert—no one within the ton has better contacts in finance, business, and banking. Lucifer’s interest is antiques, principally silver and jewelry, but his knowledge and expertise are wide.”

After a moment, she inclined her head. “I can see that in this case such talents might be useful.”

Michael considered her expression. “I didn’t think you’d mind, so I agreed on your behalf. Given Gabriel’s and Lucifer’s backgrounds, discretion is assured.” He caught her gaze. “Are you comfortable with that?”

Caro studied his eyes—and thought it more a question of whether such an investigation made him more comfortable. She’d accepted that someone—to her mind some nebulous person she’d never met— wanted her dead, presumably so she couldn’t relate something they thought she knew; she couldn’t see the house or any piece it contained as a likely reason for murder.

He, however, had without hesitation volunteered to brave the terrors of Bond Street. What had prompted his request that she didn’t leave his grandfather’s house without him wasn’t hard to guess. Never before had anyone so concertedly focused on her safety; she couldn’t help but be touched and grateful, even though to her mind pursuing the bequests would prove wide of the mark.

Smiling, she settled back against the seat. “If they wish to investigate discreetly, I can see no harm in that.”

That evening, she walked into Harriet Jennet’s salon on Michael’s arm. They hadn’t been invited, yet as a family member, Michael had permanent entree there; as a celebrated diplomatic hostess, Caro could claim the same.

She’d expected to detect at least mild surprise behind Harriet’s eyes; instead, Harriet greeted her with her usual hostessly aplomb touched, if anything, by faintly amused understanding. Seeing Caro arrive on her nephew’s arm had been precisely what she’d been expecting.

“Did you send word?” Caro pinched Michael’s arm as, leaving Harriet, they moved into the salon in which the creme de la creme of political society mingled.

He glanced at her. “Not I.”

She humphed. “Magnus, then. I was so looking forward to seeing Harriet blink. I don’t think anyone has managed that in years.”

They spent a pleasant evening circulating among the political elite, a milieu in which they both blended with ease. Her appearance with Michael undoubtedly raised questions, but among that crowd, no one would leap to any conclusions; they were who they were because they knew better than to make unwarranted assumptions.

At twelve, they returned to Upper Grosvenor Street, content to have so easily established their presence in London among the political crowd. Diplomatic circles were more varied; climbing the stairs by Michael’s side, Caro mulled over the most efficient way forward there.

Later, as was fast becoming habit, Michael joined her in her room, and in her bed. She found his continuing desire, his continuing hunger for her glorious and enthralling, yet amazing, too; she couldn’t bring herself even to consider, let alone believe, that it would last.

So she enjoyed it while she could, took all he offered and returned it fullfold. The liaison remained a source of wonder; it had happened so fast—her initial, unexpected trust in giving herself to him, and all that had followed so easily, so naturally from that. She still hadn’t come to grips with it, with what it meant, what she felt and why… it seemed as if she were another person, some other woman, when in his arms.