Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

So she waited for him to return to her, a smile on her face, giddy exultation in her heart. When he did, they passed once more into the crowd, chatting here and there until Therese Osbaldestone summoned her with an imperious wave.

“I’ll wait here,” Michael said. Lifting her hand from his sleeve, he kissed her fingertips, and released her.

She looked at him. “Coward.”

He grinned. “Indeed.”

She laughed, and left him. Michael watched her go, saw the sharp glance Lady Osbaldestone threw him, pretended he hadn’t.

Gerrard Debbington strolled up. “I wanted to ask if you and Caro would consent to sit for me sometime.”

Michael looked his surprise. “I thought you only did landscapes?” Gerrard had built a spectacular reputation as a painter of English country scenes.

Gerrard grinned. Hands in his pockets, he looked across the thinning crowd at Caro, seated beside Lady Osbaldestone. “That’s my forte; however, I’ve recently realized there’s a special challenge in painting couples—one I hadn’t previously appreciated. I stumbled across it when I did a family portrait for Patience and Vane. To me, it’s like a different dimension—one that simply doesn’t exist in landscapes.”

He met Michael’s gaze. “I’d like to paint you and Caro—together, you have that extra dimension. As a painter, if I can capture it, I’ll be rich beyond measure.”

Michael looked across at Caro, thought of a painting that would capture what had grown between them. He nodded. “I’ll tell her.” He glanced at Gerrard. “Maybe when next we’re in town?”

Delighted, Gerrard agreed. They shook hands and parted.

Michael remained where he was, in the center of the forecourt. Others came up to make their farewells; a few minutes later, Caro rejoined him.

The sun was sinking; the next hour was one of good-byes. Only they and Magnus and Evelyn were remaining at the Manor; the London-bound crowd left in a steady stream, then the locals followed.

Devil and Honoria were the last to leave—they were driving back to London and their children, then retreating to Somersham for the next several weeks. Caro and Michael had, of course, been summoned to the family Summer Celebration and, of course, would go.

As the St. Iveses’ carriage rumbled out through the gateposts, Caro heaved a patently happy, deeply contented sigh. Equally content to hear it, Michael looked down at her, at the glorious sun-shot frizz of her golden brown hair. She glanced up; her silver eyes met his.

Then she smiled and looked across at the grass verge. “It was just there that this all started—do you remember?”

She walked the few steps to the spot on the verge a few yards from the memorial stone. His hand about hers, Michael went with her.

Glancing up, she grinned. “You called me witless.”

Staring at the grass, he squeezed her hand. “You frightened me. I knew, even then, that I couldn’t afford to lose you.”

Deliberately, he shifted his gaze to the stone. Waited… but all he heard was the birds settling in the trees, the soft whisper of the breeze. All he felt was Caro’s warmth as she leaned against him.

No screaming horses. No cold and deadening fear.

The memory hadn’t gone, but the effects had dimmed, been overlaid.

By something much more powerful.

He looked at Caro, caught her silver gaze, smiled. Lifting her hand, he kissed it, then turned away. Hand in hand, they walked to the house.

He glanced up at the windows, looked up to the attics below the roofline, and felt a sense of completion well. A sense of sureness, of anticipation—of simple happiness.

His lost family was his past; Caro was his present and his future.

He’d found his ideal bride—together, the future was theirs.