The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)

Of course, Caro had been away for even longer. Sipping his tea, watching as she reminded Elizabeth of various others in the district, workers and their families and where they were now, who had married whom, who had died or moved away, Michael wondered if she ever forgot anyone. Such a memory for people and personal details was a godsend in political circles.

The minutes passed easily; the afternoon waned. The pot had gone cold and Mrs. Entwhistle’s cakes had disappeared when, at Caro’s request, he asked for their horses to be brought around. They’d risen and were walking down the terrace steps to wait in the forecourt when the rattle and clop of an approaching gig reached them.

Caro halted on the steps; raising a hand to shade her eyes, she looked to see who it was. The aftereffects of her momentary weakness as they’d approached the Rufus Stone had gradually faded; her nerves had settled—she felt reasonably calm once more. Later, she’d castigate herself for reacting as she had—when she was safely in her room and a long way from Michael.

Otherwise, the day had gone more or less as she’d wished; she doubted they’d advanced their cause, yet neither had they harmed it—and Michael had had no chance to make an offer, or even to discuss such matters with her.

It had been a positive day by default; she was content with that.

The gig came into sight, the horse trotting smartly up the drive with Muriel on the seat. She was an excellent whip; she halted the gig before the steps in some style. “Caro. Michael.”

Muriel exchanged nods with them and with Edward and Elizabeth, then looked at Michael. “I’m giving one of my suppers for the Ladies’ Association tomorrow evening. As you’re home, I came to invite you to attend—I know all the ladies would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you.”

Michael stepped down to stand beside Caro; she felt his gaze touch her face. Guessing what was behind his hesitation, she glanced at him, smiled. “Do come. You’ll know most of us there.”

Despite their earlier contretemps—and she had to forgive him, he couldn’t know—she was in reasonable charity with him. Since that painful moment, he’d behaved with exemplary tact.

He read her eyes, then glanced at Muriel, his politician’s facade sliding seamlessly into place. “I’d be delighted to take supper with the ladies. You must have some new members since last I was down.”

“Indeed.” Muriel smiled graciously; the Ladies’ Association was her pride and joy. “We’ve done well this past year, but you’ll hear of our successes tomorrow.”

Her gaze shifted, going past them as Hardacre came up, leading the three horses. Muriel looked at Caro. “If you’re heading home, Caro, perhaps you could ride beside the gig and we could go over the plans for the fete?”

She nodded. “Why not?” Sensing Michael’s hand rising to touch her back, she quickly looked down and descended the steps. She started toward Calista, then realized that Muriel was watching everyone like a hawk; the last thing they needed was any question being raised in anyone’s mind about Michael and Elizabeth.

Dragging in a breath, she swung around—to see Michael shaking hands with Edward and nodding politely to Elizabeth in farewell. Releasing Edward’s hand, Michael waved her on. “Come—I’ll lift you up.”

Her smile felt weak, but she could hardly wait for Edward to lift Elizabeth up and then help her, too, not with Michael standing there offering. Steeling every nerve, outwardly calm, she walked to Calista’s side. Dragging in another breath, she held it, and turned.

And found he was less than a foot away.

He reached for her—and it was worse than she’d anticipated. Her nerves literally quaked. He was so much taller than she, her eyes were level with his collarbone; his shoulders were so wide, he blocked her off from the world.

He gripped her waist and she felt weak, light-headed, as if his strength somehow drained hers.

He hesitated, holding her between his hands. She felt oddly small, fragile, vulnera

ble. Captured. Her whole world condensed, drew in. She could feel her heart thudding in her throat.

Then he lifted her, easily, and sat her in her saddle. His grip loosened; his hands slid slowly from about her waist. Reaching for the stirrup, he held it.

She managed to thank him; her words sounded distant to her ears. She settled her boot in the stirrup, then fussed with her skirts. Finally managed to breathe, to swallow. Gathering her reins, she looked up. Smiled at Muriel. “Let’s be off, then.”

Michael stepped back.

Caro waved in his direction, then wheeled Calista to come up beside Muriel’s gig. Edward and Elizabeth waved, too, then sent their mounts to fall in behind the gig.

Michael watched the little cavalcade until it passed out of sight. He remained for some minutes, staring at the gates, then turned on his heel and went inside.

5

At least he now knew why he needed to know more—a lot more—about Caro.

Relaxed in his chair at the breakfast table the next morning, he wondered why he’d been so slow to correctly interpret the signs. Perhaps because it was Caro and he’d known her forever. Regardless, he was now fully cognizant of at least one of the emotions keeping him so intently focused on her.

It had been a long time since he had, entirely of his own volition, without the slightest encouragement, lusted after a woman. Actively wanted her even though she was intent on running the other way.

Or so he read Caro’s reaction. She’d felt the attraction, that spark that required no thought and asked no permissions; her response had been to avoid giving it a chance to strike, and if that wasn’t possible, then to pretend it hadn’t.