The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)

Only to have him offer his arm. Inwardly shrugging, she took it in her usual trusting, close, and confiding way, the way she’d been dealing with him for the past days. Regardless of her susceptibilities, until he definitely lost interest in Elizabeth it would be wise to maintain that level of interaction—the better to steer his perceptions.

“Has she recovered?”

They strolled down the deck. “She’s considerably better, but I suspect it’ll be best if she remains in the cabin until we reach the landing stage.” She met his gaze, could read no overt concern there, nothing more than polite inquiry. “If you could lend her your arm then, I know she’ll be grateful.”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

Michael steered her to where the others sat grouped in the lee of the forecastle. For most, the day had gone well—even Geoffrey had enjoyed the outing, his only anxiety being Elizabeth’s well-being. Caro assured everyone Elizabeth was largely recovered, with her usual tact smoothed over the incident, then refocused the conversation away from Elizabeth’s indisposition.

Leaning against the yacht’s side, he watched her. Wondered. She refused Ferdinand’s offer to stroll about the deck, settling instead between his aunt and the duchess to exchange remininscences of the Portuguese court.

An hour later, the yacht was tied up at the landing stage. The company disembarked; with expressions of goodwill and thanks all around, they piled into the waiting carriages.

Elizabeth and Caro were the last of the ladies to attempt the gangplank. Together with Caro and Edward, he went down and helped Elizabeth, still weak but determined to maintain some dignity, up the stairs to the main deck.

At the head of the gangplank, Elizabeth paused and very prettily thanked Ferdinand, apologizing for the inconvenience she’d caused. Caro stood beside her; waiting behind Caro, Michael noted that the appropriate words came readily to Elizabeth’s tongue. Caro was not tense or expectant; she wasn’t anticipating any need to have to step in and assist.

Ferdinand bowed and made the best of it, smiling and gallantly waving aside Elizabeth’s apologies, his dark gaze shifting to Caro’s face as he did.

Then Edward took

Elizabeth’s hand and stepped onto the gangplank; Elizabeth followed unsteadily. Caro stepped aside and let Michael move past her; he followed Elizabeth closely, one hand hovering at her waist, steadying her, ready to catch her if she overbalanced. The tide was in; the rise and fall of the waves at the jetty was greater than it had been that morning.

Slowly progressing at Elizabeth’s heels, over her shoulder Michael saw Edward’s face every time he glanced at Elizabeth. His concern was open, and clearly personal. Although he couldn’t see Elizabeth’s expression, Michael sensed she clung to Edward’s support far more than his own.

Any thought that he’d misinterpreted and there wasn’t some definite understanding between the two vanished.

And if he could see it, Caro certainly had.

The necessity of his assisting with Elizabeth had left Caro to Ferdinand’s care. When Edward, Elizabeth, then he stepped off the gangplank and onto the jetty, he left Edward to see Elizabeth to the carriage; Geoffrey was already in it. Turning back, he waited at the gangplank’s end, and offered his hand to Caro when she reached him.

She gripped firmly, using his support as she stepped down to his side; he didn’t wait for her to take his arm but placed her hand on his sleeve and covered it with his as she turned to say her good-byes to Ferdinand.

Who was clearly irritated at being denied his moment alone with her.

His eyes met Michael’s, his gaze hard, challenging. But he had to maintain a mask of civility—more, he was given no option but to accept Caro’s definition of him as an amusing acquaintance, nothing more.

Exactly how she accomplished it, Michael couldn’t have said, yet her decree was there in the tone of her voice, in the light smile she bestowed along with her gracious nod of farewell. Both he and Ferdinand had no difficulty interpreting her message. Ferdinand had to pretend to accept it; he didn’t, however, like it.

Michael, on the other hand, wholeheartedly approved.

As he walked with Caro along the landing stage to where their carriage, the last remaining, stood waiting, he wondered if, perhaps, a word in the handsome Portuguese’s ear—a simple gentleman-to-gentleman explanation of the truth behind Caro’s nickname—might not be wise.

Despite Caro’s consummate performance, Ferdinand hadn’t given up.

4

The next morning at eleven, Michael set out to ride to Bramshaw House. Atlas, eager over once again being ridden every day, was frisky; Michael let the powerful gelding shake off his fidgets in a light canter along the lane.

He hadn’t made any arrangements to call on the Bramshaw House household. The drive back from Totton yesterday had been subdued; Elizabeth, unnaturally pale, had remained quiet and withdrawn. He and Edward had dropped back, letting the carriage roll ahead, leaving Elizabeth in relative privacy.

They’d parted at the top of Bramshaw lane, yet he’d continued to brood on Caro’s performance. The suspicion that she’d manipulated him, subtly steered him in the direction she’d wished while he’d imagined his direction and hers were the same, had grown, had pricked, prodded, and nagged at him. He’d spent the evening thinking of her, reliving their exchanges.

Normally, in any political or diplomatic sphere he’d have had his guard up, but with Caro it simply hadn’t occurred to him that he might need to guard against her.

Betrayal was too strong a word for what he felt. Irritation, yes, lent an edge by the definite prick to his pride she’d delivered. Given he was now sure quite aside from any manipulation that he definitely did not need or want Elizabeth as his wife, such a response was perhaps a touch irrational, yet it was, quite certainly, how he felt.

Of course, he didn’t know absolutely that Caro had exercised her manipulative wiles on him.