Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

That had been more than confirmation enough. Matters were, indeed, as serious as Elizabeth had supposed.

Caro shifted her gaze to her niece. She herself had been a diplomatic bride, a young and innocent seventeen-year-old swept off her feet by the supremely polished attentions of an older—in her case much older—man. She, admittedly, had had no other love in her life, but not for the world would she wish such a marriage on any other young girl.

Although she’d never known love herself, she had every sympathy for Elizabeth and Edward. It was in her household in Lisbon they’d first met; she’d never encouraged them, but to her mind that also meant not opposing them. If love was to be, it would be, and in their case, it had indeed grown. They’d remained steadfast for more than three years, and neither showed any sign of wavering in their affection.

She’d already been thinking of what she might do to further Edward’s career, at least to the point that he could offer for Elizabeth’s hand. That, however, was not a matter for today. Michael’s prospective offer had to be dealt with first. Now—immediately.

“You have to understand,” she explained, “that once Michael makes an offer, it will be much harder to get him to withdraw it, and harder still for you, placed as you are, your father’s daughter, to refuse it. Our wisest course therefore is to ensure the offer is never made, and that means changing Michael’s mind.”

His brown eyes serious, Edward looked at Elizabeth. “I agree. It’s by far the best way—the tack most likely to succeed with least damage to all.”

Elizabeth met his gaze, then glanced at Caro. Then sighed. “Very well. I concede you’re right. So what must I do?”

Caro smiled encouragingly. “For tonight, we must concentrate on raising the question of your suitability in his mind. We don’t need to repulse him all at once, but simply make him pause and consider. However, whatever we do can be neither overt nor obvious.‘’

Imagining the possibilities, she narrowed her eyes. “The key to manipulating the opinions of a gentleman like Michael Anstruther-Wetherby is always to be subtle and circumspect.”

Michael climbed the steps of Bramshaw House at ten minutes past eight that evening. Catten, the butler, knew him well; he conducted him to the formal drawing room and announced him, then deferentially stepped back. Michael walked into the long room, into a fractional pause in the buzz of conversation, smiling easily as eyes, then smiles came his way.

Engaged with a group about the fireplace, Caro saw him. Pausing a few paces inside the room, he waited while she disengaged and came to greet him, the skirts of her oyster silk gown softly shushing.

“My savior!” Smiling, she gave him her hand; when he released it, she confidently tucked it in his arm, swirling to stand beside him as she surveyed the guests. “I suspect you know most, but I doubt you’ll have met the Portuguese contingent.” She slanted him a glance. “Shall we?”

“By all means.” He allowed her to steer him toward the group she’d recently left.

She leaned close, murmured, “The ambassador and his wife are dancing attendance at Brighton, but both couples here are, if anything, even more influential.”

She smiled as they joined the group. “The Duke and Duchess of Oporto.” With a gesture she indicated a dark gentleman with a cadaverous face and a tall, equally dark and haughty matron. “The Count and Countess of Albufeira.” Another dark-haired gentleman, but quite different from the first—a portly soul with twinkling eyes and the high color of one who was fond of his wine—and a brown-haired, handsome but severe lady. “And this is Ferdinand Leponte, the count’s nephew. Allow me to present Mr. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby. Michael is our local Member of Parliament.”

Everyone exchanged bows, murmured polite greetings. Relinquishing Michael’s arm, Caro placed a hand on the duke’s sleeve. “I think it would be wise for you to get to know each other.” Eyes gleaming, she glanced at Michael. “I’ve heard a whisper that in future Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby will be spending more time in our diplomatic circles as distinct from the purely political.”

He met her gaze, arched a brow, not entirely surprised she’d heard the rumors. She hadn’t, however, revealed such knowledge earlier in the day.

Interpreting their interplay as confirmation, the count quickly engaged him; within minutes, the duke had joined in. Their wives were equally interested, with a few well-directed questions quickly establishing his background and connections.

He was content to encourage them, to listen to their views on what they saw as the most important aspects in the relationship between their two countries. They were keen to sow the right seeds, to influence his opinions before he’d truly formed them—or more particularly before he heard the views of the Foreign Office mandarins.

Caro gently touched his arm and excused herself. Although he continued to give his attention to the duke and count, he was aware that Ferdinand Leponte followed her, claiming the position by her side.

Other than exchanging greetings, Ferdinand, unlike his countrymen, had evinced not the smallest interest in him. Ferdinand looked to be around thirty years old; he was black-haired, olive-skinned, and outrageously handsome, with a brilliant smile and large dark eyes.

A womanizer almost certainly—there was something about him that left little room for doubt. He was typical of many foreign embassy aides“; relatives of those such as the count, their positions were little more than passports into diplomatic circles. Ferdinand was definitely a hanger-on, but it wasn’t the count on whom he was intent on hanging.

When Caro returned ten minutes later, swooping in to artfully extract him and lead Michael to meet her other guests, Ferdinand was still trailing at her heels.

Excusing himself to the other Portuguese, Michael met Ferdi-nand’s eyes. He bowed as if in farewell. Ferdinand smiled ingenuously. As Caro took his arm and led him to the next group, Ferdinand fell in on her other side.

“You are not to twit the general,” Caro hissed.

He glanced at her, and realized she was speaking to Ferdinand.

Ferdinand grinned, all Latin charm. “But it is so difficult to resist.”

Caro threw him a repressive glance, then they reached the group before the long windows, and she launched into introductions.

Michael shook hands with General Kleber, a Prussian, then the Hapsburg ambassador and his wife, both of whom he knew.

The general was an older gentleman, bluff and severe. “It is good that we now have peace, but there is much to be done. My country is very interested in the building of ships—do you know much of the shipyards?”

Denying any knowledge of the industry, Michael moved to draw the ambassador into the conversation. The general pointed out that Austria had no seaport and thus no navy. Michael swung the conversation to agriculture, unsurprised when Caro seized the moment to steer Ferdinand away.

She returned minutes later alone. Rescuing Michael, she introduced him to the other guests—three English diplomats and their wives; a Scots parliamentarian, Mr. Driscoll; his wife and two daughters; and a notoriously attractive Irish peer, Lord Sommerby, whom Mrs. Driscoll was eyeing askance.

Finally , with a softening smile, Caro turned to the last group in the room. She waved at her brother in affectionate dismissal; exchanging grins, Michael shook hands with Geoffrey. He was a large man, heavy-set, with sloping shoulders that accentuated a care-worn air; for all he’d been the local Member for years, a gathering of this caliber was in some ways beyond him.