Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

“I’m supposed to be your bloody secretary.” Edward’s jaw was set. He looked to Michael, something he had thus far managed not to do. “You must see my duty is to remain with her—it would be better if I come up to town and help you keep an eye on her.”

He doggedly refused to look at Caro, refused to notice her narrowing eyes.

Michael sighed. “Unfortunately, I agree with Caro.” He pretended not to see the startled look Caro threw him. “Given the potential danger, we really can’t have Elizabeth involved. She’s known as Caro’s niece; it’s obvious Caro is fond of her.” He paused, held Edward’s gaze. “As Caro’s secretary, it’s your job to aid her, and in this instance, strange though it may seem, you really can help best by keeping Elizabeth out of London.”

Edward’s determination wavered; Michael quietly added, “With the vital clue—whether it’s in Camden’s papers or in his will—in London, we cannot afford to give whoever’s been pursuing Caro an avenue through which to coerce her—we don’t need to give them any hostage to fortune.”

The prospect of Elizabeth as a hostage tipped the scales. Michael had known it would; he understood Edward’s dilemma, also his decision.

“Very well.” Distinctly grim, Edward conceded. “I’ll remain”—his lips twisted, briefly cynical—“and endeavor to keep Elizabeth distracted.”

Caro began packing immediately. Michael remained for dinner to assist in excusing her whirlwind departure, sans Edward, to Geoffrey.

As expected, once apprised of Michael’s intention to accompany Caro, having business to attend to in the capital himself, Geoffrey accepted the arrangement without quibble.

Michael took his leave as soon as the covers were drawn; he had to pack and ensure matters he’d expected to be at home to oversee were appropriately delegated. Caro, off upstairs to finish her own packing, saw him into the front hall. She gave him her hand. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

Her fingers felt so delicate in his; raising her hand, he placed a quick kiss on them, then released her. “At eight. Don’t be late.”

She smiled a very feminine smile and turned for the stairs.

He watched her climb them, then walked out and around to the stables.

Three hours later, he retraced his steps.

Quietly. It was close to midnight; the house was dark, silent under the fitful shadows thrown by the large oaks along the drive. Staying on the grass, he skirted the forecourt, circling to the west wing and the room at its end.

Caro’s bedchamber. He’d learned its location on the day of her ball when she’d sent him traipsing through the house.

He’d finished packing an hour ago. He’d intended to go to bed and sleep; instead, here he was, slinking through the shadows like some lovelorn Romeo, and he wasn’t even sure why. He was hardly a callow youth in the throes of his first romance, yet when it came to Caro, the feelings she evoked left him, if not in quite the same giddy and reckless state, then certainly compelled to actions and deeds his rational, experienced brain knew to be rash—and potentially far too revealing.

That that knowledge held no power to stop him was a revelation in itself. The risk of revealing too much, of leaving himself exposed and therefore vulnerable, barely registered against his need to know, not logically or rationally but physically via the immediate fact, that she was safe.

After hauling her out of the currents of the weir, after discovering the neatly sawn posts, he wasn’t going to get any sleep unless she lay beside him under his hand.

Night, gently cool, engulfed the scene, settling, soothing; other than the rustle of some small creature foraging through the bushes, no sound disturbed the stillness. He’d left Atlas in the nearest paddock, left his saddle slung over the fence beneath a tree.

Rounding the west wing, he paused. Through the shadows, he studied the narrow balcony that the French doors of Caro’s room gave onto. The balcony served only her room; built above the parlor’s bay window, it could only be reached from this side.

He squinted at the wall to the left. His memory hadn’t lied; a creeper grew there, thick and old. The west-facing wall caught the sun; over the years, the creeper had grown to the roof—past the balcony.

Quitting the dense shadows beneath the trees, he carefully crossed the path circling the house. Picking his way through the plants in the garden bed, he reached the creeper.

The base was over a foot thick, gnarled and solid. He looked up at the balcony, then sighed, wedged his boot into a suitable fork, and prayed the creeper was strong enough to take his weight.

Caro was on the brink of sleep when a muffled curse floated through her mind. It wasn’t one she normally used… puzzled, her mind refo-cused, turning from the billows of slumber to wonder…

A scrape reached her ears. Followed by another muffled curse.

She sat up and looked across the room to where she’d left the French doors to her balcony open to let in the elusive breeze. The lace curtains drifted, nothing looked amiss… then she heard a crack—a twig or branch—followed by a soft oath she couldn’t make out.

Her heart leapt to her throat.

She slid from the bed. A heavy silver candlestick a foot tall stood on her dressing table; she reached for it, hefted it, taking comfort from its weight, then glided silently to the French doors, paused, then moved out onto the balcony beyond.

Whoever was climbing up the old wisteria was going to get a surprise.

A hand slapped onto the balustrade; she jumped. It was a male right hand, reaching, grabbing hold. It tensed, tendons shifting, muscles bunching as the man gripped, and pulled himself up—

Raising the candlestick, grimly determined, she stepped forward, intending to bring the heavy base down on the man’s hand—

A gold signet ring winked in the weak light.

She blinked, peered, bent, and from a foot away looked more closely…

A vision flashed into her mind—of that hand, with that gold ring on the little finger, cupping her bare breast.

“Michael?” Lowering the candlestick, straightening, she stepped to the balustrade and peered over. Through the shifting shadows, she saw his head, the familiar set of his shoulders. “What on earth are you doing?”

He muttered something unintelligible, then more clearly said, “Stand back.”

She took two steps back, watched as, both hands now locked on the balustrade, he hauled himself up, then swung a leg over the wide sill and sat astride.

Catching his breath, Michael looked at her, staring, not surprisingly bemused, at him, then he noticed the candlestick. “What were you intending to do with that?”

“Give whoever was sneaking up to my balcony a nasty surprise.”

His lips twisted. “I didn’t think of that.” Swinging his other leg over, he stood, then leaned back against the balustrade as she stepped near and peered over.

“You didn’t plan awfully well at all—wisteria isn’t very strong.”

Grimacing, he relieved her of the candelestick. “So I discovered. I’m afraid it took rather a beating.”

“How am I supposed to explain that to Hendricks—Geoffrey’s gardener?” Caro looked at him, found his gaze tracing down her body.

“You won’t be here for him to ask.” The words were vague; his gaze was still traveling down. It reached her feet; he hesitated, then slowly started upward again.

“And how would it have looked if you’d got caught? The local Member of Parliament climbing to a lady’s window…” She stopped, intrigued. Waiting with feigned patience until his gaze returned to her eyes, she arched a brow.

His lips eased. “I’d imagined you as a demure cotton buttoned-to-the-throat type.”