The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)

Hedderwick, a large, rotund man with a round bald head, raised his hand in farewell. “I’ll make your excuses. Good to see you again.” He nodded to Caro, and continued toward the drawing room.

Michael faced Caro. Raised a brow. “Any further social hurdles you can see?”

Eyes like silver shards, she opened her lips—

“Oh, there you are, Hedderwick—please tell Muriel I enjoyed myself thoroughly, but I have to get back to Reginald. He’ll worry if I don’t return soon.”

Hedderwick murmured soothingly, standing back as Miss Trice emerged from the drawing room and came bustling toward Michael and Caro. A gaunt but thoroughly good-natured lady, sister of the local vicar, she’d kept house for him for many years and was an active member of the Ladies’ Association.

Her eyes twinkled as she neared. “Thank you, Caro, for making the first move. It’s really very good of Muriel to give these little suppers, but some of us do have other calls on our time.”

Caro smiled. Miss Trice beamed at Michael and bade them both farewell, barely breaking her stride in her march to the door.

The footman swung it open; as Miss Trice went out, the clop of hooves and the crunch of wheels on gravel reached them.

“Good.” Michael grasped Caro’s arm. “You can stop arguing. It’s dark. I’m leaving, too. I may as well drive you home—Geoffrey would expect me to.”

She looked at him. Despite her calm expression, he could see the exasperation in her eyes. Then she shook her head, gestured as she turned to the door. “Very well!”

Feeling entirely justified, he escorted her onto the porch. His curricle stood waiting. As they went down the steps, she muttered something; he thought the words were “Damn presumptuous male!”

Having gained what he wished, he ignored them. Taking her hand, he assisted her into the curricle, then gathered the reins and followed. She scooted along the seat, drawing her skirts in so he could sit beside her. He did, then set his matched grays trotting down the short drive.

Nose in the air, Caro said, “What about Miss Trice? She’s walking home in the dark, too.”

“And the vicarage is what? Fifty yards down the road, with its door at most ten paces from the gate.”

He heard a sound suspiciously like a sniff.

Decided to poke back. “Could you please explain why you’re being so difficult over me driving you home?”

Caro clung to the front of the curricle as he turned his horses into the street. It was a moonless night, black and balmy; he couldn’t see that her knuckles were white. As she’d anticipated, through the turn his weight shifted; his hard thigh pressed against hers—heat flared and sank into her flesh, into her. The curricle straightened; the pressure eased. Yet she remained intensely aware of him, of the hard, masculine heat of him a mere inch away.

Predictably, her nerves were in knots, her lungs tight. She’d never been so afflicted in her life.

How could she explain what she didn’t understand?

She sucked in a breath, and prepared to lie. “It’s just—”

She blinked,

peered ahead.

Shadowy figures were dancing in the darkness along the side of the road. She peered harder.

“Good God!” She grabbed Michael’s arm, felt it turn to steel under her fingers. “Look!” She pointed ahead. “Miss Trice!”

Two burly figures were struggling with the thin woman; a half-smothered scream reached them.

Michael saw. With a cry, he flicked the reins and his horses shot forward.

Caro clung to the side of the curricle, eyes locked on the scene ahead. The sudden thunder of hooves erupting out of the black night made the two men look up. She caught a fleeting glimpse of pale faces, then one yelled; they let Miss Trice go and plunged down a narrow path between the vicarage and the next cottage.

The path led directly into the forest.

Michael hauled on the reins; the curricle stopped, rocking wildly on its springs alongside the crumpled figure of Miss Trice.

Caro jumped down without waiting for the curricle to settle. She heard Michael swear as she raced across in front of his horses. As she reached Miss Trice, she was aware of him hauling on the brake, swiftly tying off the reins.