Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

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.

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.