Now, however, his time had come. When Parliament had risen for the summer, he’d been left in no doubt that the Prime Minister expected him to return in autumn with a wife on his arm, thereby enabling him to be considered in the cabinet reshuffle widely tipped to occur at that time. Since April, he’d been actively seeking his ideal bride.
The peace of the countryside wrapped him about; the wife, wife, wife refrain remained, but its tone grew less compulsive the closer he got to his goal.
It had been easy to define the qualities and attributes he required in his bride—passable beauty, loyalty, supportive abilities such as hostessly talents, and some degree of intelligence lightened with a touch of humor. Finding such a paragon proved another matter; after spending hours in the ballrooms, he’d concluded he’d be wiser to seek a bride with some understanding of a politician’s life—even better, a successful politician’s life.
Then he’d met Elizabeth Mollison, or rather remet her, for strictly speaking he’d known her all her life. Her father, Geoffrey Mollison, own
ed Bramshaw House and had been the previous Member for the district. Brought low by his wife’s unexpected death, Geoffrey had resigned the seat just as Michael had approached the party with his grandfather Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby’s and the Cynsters’ backing. It had seemed a stroke of fate. Geoffrey, a conscientious man, had been relieved to be able to hand the reins to someone he knew. Even though he and Geoffrey were from different generations and markedly different in character—namely in ambition—he’d always found Geoffrey encouraging, always ready to help.
He hoped he’d help now, and support his notion of marrying Elizabeth.
She was, in his estimation, remarkably close to his ideal. True, she was young—nineteen—but she was also well bred, well groomed, and unquestionably well brought up and, so he judged, capable of learning all she needed to know. She was a very English beauty, with pale blond hair and blue eyes, a fine complexion, and a slender figure well suited to the current fashions; most important, however, she had grown up in a political house. Even after her mother had died and Geoffrey had retired from the fray, Elizabeth had been placed in the care of her aunt Augusta, Lady Cunningham, who was married to a senior diplomat.
What’s more, her younger aunt, Caroline, had been married to the British ambassador to Portugal; Elizabeth had spent time at the embassy in Lisbon under her aunt Caro’s wing.
Elizabeth had lived all her life in political and diplomatic households. Michael was perfectly certain she’d know how to manage his. And, of course, marrying her would strengthen his admittedly already strong position locally; that wasn’t something to sneeze at, given that by all accounts in future he’d be spending much of his time on international affairs. A wife who could be relied on to keep the home fires stoked would be a godsend.
Mentally, he rehearsed what he would say to Geoffrey. He did not yet wish to make a formal offer for Elizabeth’s hand—he needed to get to know her better and allow her to get to know him—but given the connection between himself and the Mollisons, he deemed it wise to sound Geoffrey out; no sense in proceeding if he was set against it.
Michael doubted that would be the case, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask, to keep Geoffrey firmly in his camp. If over two or three meetings Elizabeth proved as pleasant and amenable as she’d appeared in town, they could progress to an offer, and thence to the altar, all in good time for autumn.
Cold-blooded perhaps, yet in his opinion a marriage based on mutual affection rather than passion would suit him best.
Despite his links with the Cynsters, he did not consider himself as one with them when it came to marriage; he was a different sort of man. They were passionate, determined, high-handedly arrogant; he would admit to being determined, but he’d long ago learned to disguise his arrogance, and he was a politician, ergo not a man given to the wilder passions.
Not a man to allow his heart to rule his head.
A straightforward marriage to a lady close to his ideal—that was what he needed. He’d discussed the prospect and specifically Elizabeth Mollison with his grandfather, and also with his aunt, Mrs. Harriet Jennet, a political hostess of note; both had supported his stance, in both cases with typical Anstruther-Wetherby ascerbity.
Harriet had snorted. “Glad to see Honoria and that lot haven’t turned your head. The position of your wife is too important to be decided by the color of a lady’s eyes.”
He doubted that the color of a lady’s eyes had ever featured highly in any male Cynster’s mind as a deciding factor in marriage—other physical attributes perhaps…of course, he’d held his tongue.
Magnus had made various stringent comments about the unwisdom of allowing passion to rule one’s life. Strangely, however, although almost daily prodding him to get on with the business of securing Elizabeth’s hand, at Amelia’s wedding at Somersham, Magnus had ignored the perfect opportunity to press…then again, history had it that all weddings celebrated at Somersham Place were love matches. Perhaps it was that—that the marriage he was set on, indeed, needed to be set on, would not be one such—that had persuaded his grandfather to cling to wisdom and in that company hold his tongue.
The lane wended on; a strange impatience rose within him but he held Atlas to his steady pace. Ahead, the trees thinned; beyond, glimpsed through their trunks and the thick undergrowth, he could see the rippling fields lining the Lyndhurst lane.
A feeling of certainty gripped him; it was the right time for him to go forward and marry, to build another family here, the next generation, to put down deeper roots and grow into the next phase of his life.
The lane was a succession of curves, the trees and undergrowth thick enough to screen sounds at any distance; by the time the rattle of the fast-approaching carriage, the thud of flying hooves, reached him, the carriage was almost upon him.
He just had time to draw Atlas to the side of the lane before a gig, out of control and careening wildly, exploded around the bend.
It flashed past, heading toward the Manor. Grim-faced, pale as death, a slim woman wrestled with the reins, desperately trying to control the horse.
Michael cursed and wheeled Atlas. He was thundering in the gig’s wake before he’d even thought. Then he did, and cursed again. Carriage accidents were his worst nightmare; the threat of witnessing another sank like a spur into his side. He urged Atlas on.
The gig was rocketing, almost flying; the horse would soon tire, but the lane led only to the Manor—and that would be reached too soon.
He’d been born at the Manor, had lived his first nineteen years there; he knew every foot of the lane. Atlas was fresh; dropping the reins, Michael rode with hands and knees.
They were gaining, but not enough.
Soon the lane would become the drive, which ended in a sharp turn into the forecourt before the Manor steps. The horse would take the curve; the gig wouldn’t. It would overturn, the lady would be thrown…onto the rocks edging the front beds.
Inwardly cursing, he pushed Atlas on. The big gelding responded, stretching out, legs flashing as they gained inch by inch on the wildly rocking gig. They were almost alongside….
The gates flashed up, then were behind.