The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)
The carriage shifting behind them recalled Michael to his duty. He turned and helped Elizabeth down.
Caro walked to the na
rrow gangplank leading onto the yacht. While she waited for Edward and Geoffrey to join her, she scanned those already on board. She was delighted to note Mrs. Driscoll and her daughters. She’d suggested Ferdinand invite them, too; clearly he’d complied.
She couldn’t yet see if the Driscolls had lived up to her expectations. Glancing back, she took in the delightful picture Elizabeth made in her summery gown of sprig muslin, ruffled at the neckline, sleeves, and hem. She carried a matching ruffled parasol; the outfit was perfect for a garden party, or to impress impressionable males at any outdoor event.
Of course, no woman with the slightest modicum of common sense would wear such a gown aboard an oceangoing yacht.
Noting Michael’s silent but patent approval of Elizabeth’s appearance, Caro inwardly grinned; he wouldn’t be so approving by the time they headed home. She summoned Edward with a look; leaving Elizabeth to Michael, he came to give her his arm and aid her in picking her way up the gangplank.
“I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing,” he murmured, steadying her as she swayed.
Tightening her grip on his arm, she laughed. “Oh, ye of little faith. Have I failed you yet?”
“No, but it’s not you directly I doubt.”
“Oh?” She glanced at him, then back at Elizabeth, tripping prettily toward the gangplank on Michael’s arm.
“No, not Elizabeth either. I just wonder if you’re reading him aright.”
Caro drew back to look at Edward’s face. “Michael?”
Looking ahead, Edward’s face hardened. “And not just Anstruther-Wetherby.”
Facing forward, Caro saw Ferdinand, the smiling convivial host, waiting at the gangplank’s head. He looked like a handsome wolf—too many teeth were on show. Smiling in return, she covered the last yards and gave him her hand; he bowed her aboard with courtly grace.
Straightening, he raised her hand to his lips. “You are the last, as befits the most important, dear Caro. Now, we may set sail.”
With a twist of her wrist, she slid her fingers from his grasp. “Do wait until my brother and niece and Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby come aboard.”
With an amused glance, she directed Ferdiand’s attention to where Elizabeth was unsteadily negotiating the narrow gangplank. “It’s the first time Elizabeth’s been aboard a yacht. I’m sure she’ll find the experience rewarding.” She patted Ferdinand’s arm. “I’ll leave you to greet them.”
She was aware of the irritated look he cast her as she swept forward. Edward strolled in her wake; they were both excellent sailors, quite at home on the lightly rolling deck.
“Countess. Duchess.” They exchanged bows, then Caro greeted the gentlemen before turning to Mrs. Driscoll. “I’m so glad you and your daughters could join us.”
As she’d predicted—it was so nice to be proved right—both the Driscoll girls were sensibly attired in twill walking dresses, plain and unadorned. Her own gown of bronze silk twill was made high to the throat, with long fitted sleeves and only slightly flared skirts. Her shawl was a plain one without any fringe. Other than a strip of flat lace around the collar and the placket of her bodice—safe enough—there were no frills or furbelows to catch on anything.
Unlike the fine ruffles of Elizabeth’s gown.
“Oh!”
As if on cue, the feminine cry had everyone turning. Elizabeth’s hem had snagged in the gap between the gangplank and the deck. Ferdinand had his hands full holding her upright, while Michael crouched precariously on the gangplank, struggling to unhook the fine material.
Reining in her smile to the merely happy, Caro turned back to the others. With a wide gesture, she directed all attention to the brilliant blue swath of water before them, the surface ruffled by a gentle breeze. “It’s going to be a glorious day!”
It certainly started out that way. Once Elizabeth, Michael, and Geoffrey were safe aboard, the gangplank was drawn in and the ropes untied; a trio of swarthy sailors swarmed up the rigging, then the sails were unfurled and the yacht leapt before the wind.
With “oohs” and “aahs” and shining eyes, all the guests clung to the bow rails and watched the waves rush to meet them. Fine spray kicked up as the yacht gained speed, sending the ladies back from the rails to the chairs grouped behind the forecastle. Leaving Elizabeth to her own devices—she had strict instructions on what line to take—Caro linked her arm in Geoffrey’s and set out to stroll, determined to stay clear of Michael and Ferdinand both.
It was easy to pass among the ladies, to share the enjoyment as the yacht sped smoothly down the western shore of the estuary. Other than when they crossed the wake thrown up by a larger commercial ship, the journey was relatively calm.
While passing the spot along the port bow where Michael, Elizabeth, and the Driscoll girls stood chatting, Caro listened in.
Elizabeth, eyes shining, was holding forth. “The suppers are really nothing at all to comment on, but the dancing, especially close by the rotunda, is quite thrilling—one can never be sure whom one is rubbing shoulders with!”
Vauxhall. Caro smiled. The pleasure gardens did not rate highly among the political and diplomatic set. As she and Geoffrey moved on, she saw Elizabeth lean against a rope to steady herself; when she tried to straighten, the ruffle at her shoulder caught on the rough hemp. One of the Driscoll girls came to her rescue.