The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)
“Humph! Just as well.” She leaned into him, reached up and carefully speared her fingers through his hair, gently explored the back of his skull. “It still hurts,” she said when he winced.
“Nothing like it did.” He spread his hands and drew her to him, molded her to him. “And my head isn’t spinning in the least.”
Her eyes searched his; her smile was slow, filled with sultry promise. “Perhaps I should rectify that.”
“Indeed. I’m quite sure that falls under the heading of wifely duties.” He’d used the term deliberately; her lashes had been lowering, but now they rose and she met his eyes.
She read them, then drew breath, exhaled. “We haven’t discussed the details.”
“The details,” he informed her, “remain up to you. Whatever you want, whatever you wish. Whenever you wish.”
She studied his eyes, smiled. “I believe you mentioned a special license?”
She had remembered; he’d wondered. He nodded. “I have one.”
Gently, within his arms, she swished her hips side to side, back and forth, the exquisitely sheer figured silk of her gown a tantalizing whisper shielding her svelte curves. Her eyes never left his. “Perhaps we should marry as soon as possible….” Her gaze dropped to his lips; she licked hers, then met his gaze again. “Can you see any reason to wait?”
He could see every reason to rush ahead. “Three days.” He tightened his hold on her, anchoring her distracting hips, almost groaning as he realized how aroused she’d succeeded in making him. “Soon!”
She laughed, that light airy, truly carefree sound he’d heard too infrequently to date. “It’s the height of summer—hardly anyone’s in town. And they’ll never forgive us if we slip away and tie the knot without them.”
Michael thought of Honoria, and groaned aloud. “Invitiations, organization.” More delay.
“Don’t worry—I’ll handle it.” Caro smiled up at him. “Let’s say the end of next week….” Her smile faded; her eyes remained on his, open, yet…“Can we hold the wedding breakfast at the Manor?”
“Of course.” He didn’t ask why, left the choice to her.
Her silver gaze remained locked with his. “When I married Camden, we had the breakfast at Bramshaw House. But that’s the past, one I’ve left behind. I want our wedding to be a fresh start—for me, it is. It’s a new start, walking a different road, with you.”
He looked into her silvery eyes, clear, decided, resolute. He’d been weighing whether to tell her what Timothy had revealed, to help her understand that the sexual failure of her first marriage had never been her fault, or whether to simply let the past die.
She’d just made the decision for him—she’d put the past behind her, shut the door and turned away. And now she was committed to walking into the future with her hand in his, and making the best they could of it together.
He smiled into her eyes. “I love you.”
Her brows lightly rose; her eyes glowed softly. “I know. I love you, too—at least, I believe I do.” She searched his eyes, then said, “It has to be that, don’t you think—this feeling?”
He knew she wasn’t referring to the warmth that was spreading through them, heating their skins, sliding through their veins, but the force that drove it—that power that most tangibly manifested when they were locked together, when they gave themselves each to the other, the power that at such times waxed so strong they could feel it, could almost touch it. The power that day by day bound them ever more closely.
“Yes,” he said, and lowered his head, found her lips, accepted her invitation and sank into her mouth. And devoted himself to showing her that to him she was the most desirable woman in the world.
By giving himself up to that power.
They were wed in the church in Bramshaw village. The ton turned out in force; so, too, did London’s diplomatic elite. It might have been a political and diplomatic nightmare, yet with Caro decreeing and Honoria enforcing, with able lieutenants among the many Cynster ladies and connections, no one dared create a fuss over anything, and the event passed without a single hitch.
From the packed church, running a gauntlet of flowers and a fine hail of rice, Caro and Michael made their way through the crowd that hadn’t managed to squeeze inside, then climbed up to an open barouche for the drive back to the Manor.
There, a massive feast had been laid out; everyone was welcome—everyone came. The crowd was enormous, the good wishes unfeigned; the sun shone down in glorious
benediction as, hand in hand, they did the rounds, greeting, thanking, talking.
The crowd didn’t start thinning until late in the afternoon. Still wearing her ivory lace wedding gown heavily beaded with tiny seed pearls, Caro saw Timothy, a glass in his hand, sit down on the orchard wall, grinning as he watched the younger crew playing bat and ball along the back section of the drive. She leaned close to Michael, brushed his jaw with her lips, met his gaze. Smiled serenely. “I’m going to talk to Timothy.”
Michael looked over her head, then nodded. “I’m going to get Magnus inside. I’ll find you when I come out.”
Drawing away, leaving his side yet aware some part of her never truly would, she followed the lawn bordering the drive, and came up beside Timothy.
He glanced up as she sank onto the stone beside him. Grinned, and raised his glass to her. “An exceptional event.” He held her gaze, then took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I’m pleased you’re so happy.” Gently squeezing her hand, he released it.