Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

At that moment, however, in the shadows of the night, standing within Michael’s arms, Camden’s papers were not uppermost in her mind. She tightened her arms, stretched up against his hold. “Kiss me.”

Michael smiled, and did, taking full advantage of her invitation— making a mental note to later ask who the old friend she’d entrusted with Camden’s letters was—but then her invitation deepened, broadened, sensual horizons expanding… capturing him, his thoughts, his body, his mind.

Ultimately his soul.

With no other woman had he shared such a connection; with no other could he imagine doing so. With every passing night, every day, every soiree, every hour in their mutual world, they seemed to become more definitely, ever more clearly the compatible halves of a powerful whole.

The knowledge shook him, and thrilled him. Sent impatient exulta-tion surging through him. No matter that she hadn’t yet recanted her opposition and agreed to their wedding, he couldn’t see—had no intention of countenancing—any other outcome. The path between now and then might be shrouded in impenetrable shadow, uncertain both in length and events, yet their eventual destination remained fixed and unwavering.

Later, sated and replete, he gathered her, boneless and drowsy, against him, settling them comfortably in the billows of her bed. He’d meant to ask her something… couldn’t quite focus his mind… “Who lectured you on your duty?” He hoped it hadn’t been Magnus.

“Therese Osbaldestone.‘ Caro sleepily rubbed her cheek against his arm. ”She’s pleased I’m not hiding myself away.“

He made a mental note to keep an eye on Lady Osbaldestone. He didn’t need her queering his pitch, pressuring Caro in any way whatever.

If he’d harbored any reservations that he needed her—specifically her—by his side, the past two evenings would have put the matter beyond doubt. Yet that was his professional life; while such considerations provided a major impetus—an increasingly powerful motive for him to marry her with all speed—the very same arguments were those she would most distrust… and he couldn’t fault her in that.

Marriage—the more he thought of it, considered it in its totality, the more he appreciated that it had to be based on more than professional interests, on far more than a sense of duty. Not only would Caro not bow to duty again, he didn’t want her to come to him that way. Not for that reason.

Above all, not for that reason.

As he lay in the warmth of the rumpled bed and let sleep draw near, heard Caro’s soft breaths, felt them ruffle the hairs on his chest, felt her soft warmth, her feminine curves, pressed to him, a promise clearer, more potent than any words, he was aware of impatience, yet equally conscious of the wisdom of waiting.

Of letting her make up her mind on her own, no pressure, no persuasions…

A thought rippled through his mind as sleep drew him under. Perhaps there was something he could do.

Subtly influencing people was a politician’s stock-in-trade. He was an excellent politician; the following morning, leaving Caro ensconced in the upstairs parlor leafing through Camden’s diaries, he reminded himself of that as he paced down Upper Grosvenor Street and into Grosvenor Square.

Not pressure, not persuasion, but there were other avenues, other means. Aside from all else, actions spoke loudest, were always more convincing.

Honoria was at home; she joined him in the sitting room. The children barreled in in her wake; after dutifully admiring Sebastian’s and young Michael’s new bat and ball, and spending a few minutes tickling Louisa, he glanced at Honoria. She saw and efficiently shooed her brood out through the terrace doors to play on the lawn where their nursemaids were waiting.

“There!” Standing on the threshold, she looked at him. “What is it?”

He joined her, allowing her to keep a distant eye on her sons’ antics while they talked. “I want to marry Caro, but…” Staring out at the lawns, he continued, “Her marriage to Camden was based on his need of her talents—what he correctly perceived as her potential hostessly skills. Those, of course, are precisely the same skills I need in a wife, but such a need is the very last thing that would persuade Caro to a second marriage.”

Honoria grimaced. “I can see her point. Camden was a great deal older than she.”

“Indeed. Worse, it was very much an arranged marriage, primarily for Camden’s benefit. Caro, however, was not initially aware of that.”

Honoria’s grimace turned pained. “Oh, dear.” She glanced briefly at him. “So if you approach her offering the position of your wife…”

He nodded, a touch grim. “If that was all I offered, I would stand no chance of winning her.” He drew breath, exhaled, stated his decision. “To win Caro, I need to offer more—a lot more.”

He looked at Honoria, met her eyes. “Which is why I’m here. I wanted to ask why, when initially you were so set against it, you changed your mind and accepted Devil’s proposal. What tipped the scales?”

Honoria studied his face, his eyes; she understood exactly what he was asking. Her mind flitted back seven years, to that long-ago summer. Remembered… recalled. Facing the lawn, she searched for words to explain what had compelled her to accept Devil’s offer, to seize the chance, accept the challenge—pick up the gauntlet fate had so unexpectedly flung in her path.

How could she explain the allure, the compelling temptation, of love? Of a heart offered, however reluctantly, however much against the grain. That that very reluctance could in certain circumstances make the gift even more precious, because it could never be seen as something lightly yielded.

She drew breath, thought how to phrase her answer. Eventually said, “I changed my mind because he offered me the one thing I most truly needed, the thing that would make my life into what—or even more than—I had dreamed it could be. Because he was prepared to give me that, and through that, all that was most important to me.”

Her gaze focused on her children. Should she mention that Caro wanted children, yearned for them in much the same way she had? A hidden, very private yearning that only another who had felt the same might guess. She’d guessed, and had seized the opportunity to let Louisa confirm it, prodding that yearning to life.

But if she told Michael… he was male—would he understand how to effectively use the knowledge? He might think the promise of children, of itself, was enough, and not see it as the outcome, the consequence of that even more precious gift.

Quite aside from her sisterly desire to see him happy and settled, married to a lady of the type he deserved, she also felt a compulsion to do all she could to see Caro happy, too. To have her childhood friend experience the same happiness she had found.

The last thing she wished was for Caro’s unsatisfactory first marriage to dim her chances of attaining that happiness.

She glanced at Michael, realized that despite his impassive expression he was wrestling with her words, trying to interpret them. “I can’t explain better than that. For each woman, the outward expression of what is most important will differ, yet giving her that one critical thing that enables all else, being willing to do so, is the key.”

He met her gaze. Smiled a touch wryly. “Thank you.”

She sighed. “I hope that helps.”

Michael took her hand, squeezed lightly. “It does—it will.”

Casting a last glance at his nephews and niece, cavorting, shrieking, on the lawn, he released Honoria’s hand, nodded in farewell. “I’ll leave you to your dream.”

She snorted, but by the time he reached the door, she’d already gone out on the terrace.

He stopped to speak to Devil, who had nothing further to report, then set out for the clubs. As he walked, he turned Honoria’s words over in his mind.

When she’d spoken, she’d been looking at her children. Given their background, the tragic loss of the rest of their family, he had no difficulty understanding that for Honoria, home, family, and therefore children, mattered a great deal—that those things were as important to her as they were to him.

Had she meant that those things were just as important to Caro?

If she did, where did that get him?

What, indeed, was Caro’s deepest need?

He returned to Upper Grosvenor Street just before three o’clock, still no further along, either with his inquiries or his cogitations on Caro’s needs. Putting both aside, he took the stairs two at a time; opening the parlor door, he beheld Caro, seated in an armchair and deep in one of Camden’s diaries.

She looked up. Her fine hair formed a nimbus about her head; the sun striking through the window gilded each strand, a quiveringly alive filigree halo for her heart-shaped face with its delicate features and tip-tilted silvery eyes.

Those eyes lit at the sight of him. “Thank God!” Shutting the diary and setting it atop the pile, she held out her hands. “I sincerely hope you’re here to rescue me.”

Smiling, he walked in, took her hands, and pulled her up—and into his arms. Closing them about her, he bent his head; she lifted her lips.

They kissed. Long and slowly, deeply, yet both aware that they had to hold passion at bay, had to keep the flames suppressed.

Their lips parted only to meet again, to taste, take, give.

Eventually, he raised his head.

She sighed. Opened her eyes. “I suppose we must go.”

Her transparent reluctance delighted him. Yet… “Unfortunately, we must.” Releasing her, he stepped back. “Lucifer will be waiting.”

They’d agreed to show Lucifer around the Half Moon Street house that afternoon at three. When they arrived, he was lounging, tall, dark, and rakishly handsome, against the front railings.

Grinning, he straightened and stepped forward to hand Caro down from the hackney, then bowed gracefully. “Your servant, Mrs. Sutcliffe. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She smiled. “Thank you—but please call me Caro.”

Lucifer nodded to Michael, then waved up the steps. “I confess I’m agog to view the collection.”

Opening the door, Caro led them into the front hall. “I hadn’t realized Camden was such a well-known collector.‘’

“He wasn’t, but once I started asking around, he was definitely known, mostly for his eccentricity in collecting as he had.” Lucifer studied a sideboard and the vase that stood upon it. “Most people collect one type of thing. Sutcliffe collected all sorts of things, but for one house—this house.” He gestured at the round table in the hall, at the mirror on the wall. “Everything was chosen specifically to fill a particular place and function in this house. Everything is unique—the collection itself is unique.”

“I see.” Leading the way into the drawing room, she crossed to the windows and dragged back the heavy drapes, letting light spill across the gorgeous furniture, fracture and refract through crystal, gleam across gilt and beaten silver. “I hadn’t thought of it as strange.” She turned. “So what do you need to see?”

“Most of the major rooms, I suspect. But tell me, do you know who he dealt with? I have some names, but wondered which other dealers he used.”

“Wainwright, Cantor, Jofleur, and Hastings. No others.”

Lucifer looked up. “You’re certain of that?”

“Yes. Camden refused to deal with anyone else—he once told me he wasn’t interested in getting bilked, and that’s why he insisted on dealing only with men he trusted.”

Lucifer nodded. “He was right about those four, which means we can forget any likelihood of forgery. If any of them discovered they’d sold him a fake, they would have offered him his money back. If he dealt solely with them, that’s one scam we don’t need to imagine was involved here.”

“One scam.” Michael raised his brows. “There’s another possibility?”

“One that’s looking more likely every minute.” Lucifer glanced around. “Wait until I’ve seen more, then I’ll explain.”

Caro dutifully guided him about the ground floor, answering his questions, confirming that Camden had kept excellent records of all his purchases. In the dining room, waiting while Lucifer studied the contents of a glass-fronted cabinet, she noticed a candlestick normally in the center of the sideboard now stood to the left. She centered it again; thinking back to when she’d glanced in when she and Michael had come to fetch Camden’s papers, she was sure the candlestick had been in its accustomed place.