Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

She laughed, a golden sound that merged with the gilded afternoon. “You have a politician’s tongue.” She said it approvingly. “But enough of me—what of you? Were you in London this Season?”

It was the opening he’d been angling for; he let his lips twist wryly. “I was, but various committees and bills proved more distracting than anticipated.” He elaborated, content to let her draw him out, to form for herself a picture of his life—and his need of a wife. She was too knowledgeable for him to need to spell it out; she would see—and be there to explain and assure Elizabeth when the time came.

There was a subtle attraction in speaking with someone who knew his world and understood its nuances. Watching Caro’s face was a pleasure—seeing the expressions flit over her features, watching her gestures, so elegant and graceful, glimpsing the intelligence and humor in her eyes.

Caro, too, was content, yet as he watched her, so she, too, from behind her polished facade, watched him, and waited.

Eventually, he met her gaze and simply asked, “Why were you heading this way?”

The lane led here and only here; they both knew it.

She let her eyes light, beamed a brilliant smile his way. “Thank you for reminding me. What with all this catching up, I’d quite forgotten, yet it’s all very apt.”

Leaning her forearms on the table, she fixed him with her most beguiling look. “As I said, I’m staying with Geoffrey, but old habits die hard. I know quite a few people from the ministries and embassies who are spending their summer in the neighborhood—I’ve organized a dinner for tonight, but…” She let her smile turn rueful. “I’m one gentleman short. I came to prevail on you to help me balance my table—you, at least, will appreciate how necessary to my peace of mind that is.”

He was charmed and had to laugh.

“Now,” she continued, ruthlessly gilding the lily, “we have a small party from the Portuguese embassy, and three from the Austrian, and—” She proceeded to outline her guest list; no politician worth his salt would refuse the opportunity to bump such elbows.

He made no pretense of doing so, but smiled easily. “I’ll be delighted to oblige.”

“Thank you.” She gave him her very best smile; she might be a trifle out of practice, but it still seemed to work.

A rattle and clop on the graveled drive reached them; they both looked, then rose as Hardacre walked Henry, once more harnessed to her gig, around.

Hardacre saw them and ducked his head. “Seems right as rain now—you shouldn’t have any trouble with him.”

Caro gathered her reticule and rounded the table. Michael took her elbow and steadied her down the terrace steps. She thanked Hardacre, then allowed Michael to help her up to the gig’s seat. Taking the reins, she smiled at him. “At eight o’clock then—I promise you won’t be bored.”

“I’m sure I won’t be.” Michael saluted her and stepped back.

She flicked the reins and Henry obliged; in perfect style, she trotted out along the drive.

Michael watched her go—and wondered how she’d known he’d be here to ask. It was the first day in months he’d been home, yet… just luck? Or, given it was Caro, was it good management?

Beside him, Hardacre cleared his throat. “Didn’t want to say anything to Mrs. Sutcliffe—no point. But that horse…”

Michael looked at him. “What about him?”

“I reckon the reason he bolted was because he’d been stung with pellets—found three tender spots on his left hindquarter, like marks left by stones from a slingshot.”

He frowned. “Boys—for a lark?”

“Dangerous lark if that be so, and I have to say I can’t think of any lad hereabouts silly enough to do such a thing.”

Hardacre was right; all the locals lived on horses—they’d know the likely outcome of such foolishness. “Perhaps there are visitors from London in the vicinity. Lads who wouldn’t know.”

“Aye, that’s possible,” Hardacre admitted. “Anyways, can’t see any likelihood of it happening again, least not to Mrs. Sutcliffe.”

“No, indeed. That would be like lightning striking twice.”

Hardacre headed back to the stable. Michael stood for a full minute staring down the drive, then he turned and climbed the terrace steps.

It was too late now to call on Geoffrey Mollison, especially not if his household was at sixes and sevens preparing for Caro’s dinner party. Indeed, there was now no need as he himself would be attending and thus would meet Geoffrey later.

Yet his impatience had eased; he was inclined to view Caro’s dinner as an opportunity rather than a distraction. Such an event would be the perfect setting in which to refresh his memory and further his acquaintance with Elizabeth, his ideal bride.

Feeling indebted to Caro, he strolled inside—he needed to unpack his evening gear.

“The enemy is engaged! Our campaign is under way.” A triumphant smile wreathing her face, Caro dropped into a chintz-covered armchair in the family parlor at Bramshaw House.

“Yes, but will it work?” Perched on the chaise, picture pretty in a ruffled gown of sprigged muslin with her long fair hair coiled at her nape, Elizabeth eyed her, hope and trepidation in her big blue eyes.

“Of course it will work!” Caro turned her triumph on the only other occupant of the parlor, her secretary, Edward Campbell, who was seated beside Elizabeth on the chaise. A sober, earnest, and reliable gentleman of twenty-three summers, Edward did not look at all the sort of gentleman to have swept Elizabeth off her feet. Appearances, as Caro well knew, could be deceptive.

Letting her smile fade, she met Edward’s eyes. “I assure you that when a gentleman like Michael Anstruther-Wetherby makes up his mind you are the ideal candidate for the position of his wife, the only way to avoid having to say the word ‘no’ and cling limpetlike to it in the teeth of the considerable pressure that will—make no doubt—be brought to bear, is to convince him before he makes his offer that he’s made a mistake.”

Although her words were for Elizabeth, she continued to watch Edward. If the pair were less than rock solid in their resolve, she wanted to see it, know it, now.

Until five days ago, she’d been happily ensconced in Derbyshire with Augusta and had expected to spend the summer months there. Two urgent summonses from Elizabeth, one to her, one to Edward, had brought them hotfoot to Hampshire via London.

Elizabeth had written, panicked at the prospect of finding herself facing an offer from Michael Anstruther-Wetherby. Caro had thought it a sham—she knew Michael’s age and his circle—but Elizabeth had related a conversation with her father in which Geoffrey, having ascertained that Elizabeth had formed no tendre for any gentleman she’d met while in town during the Season, had proceeded to sing Michael’s praises.

That, Caro had had to admit, sounded suspicious. Not because Michael wasn’t perfectly praiseworthy, but because Geoffrey had sought to point that out.

Edward, too, had had doubts over Elizabeth’s conjecture, but stopping in London on their way down, he’d dropped in on certain friends, like him aides and secretaries to the politically powerful. What he’d learned had brought him home pale and tense. The whispers had it that Michael Anstruther-Wetherby had been put on notice for a cabinet position; part of that notice concerned his marital status and the suggestion he alter it by autumn.

Caro had delayed another day in town, long enough to pay a morning call on Michael’s formidable aunt, Harriet Jennet. They’d spoken political hostess to diplomatic hostess; Caro hadn’t even had to broach the subject—Harriet had seized the opportunity to drop a word in her ear regarding Michael’s interest in Elizabeth.