The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)

He’d intended to let matters fall out as they would, to allow Caro to realize his interest in her in her own time—he had the whole summer to secure her as his bride; there hadn’t seemed any reason to rush her—yet by the time he’d risen from the breakfast table that morning, he’d accepted that that approach would no longer do.

Aside from all else, he’d discovered he had far more in common with his brother-in-law than he’d supposed.

That Devil would shield Honoria from any and all danger regardless of whether she wished to be shielded was beyond question. Knowing how much that irked his sister, yet equally aware of how ruthless Devil could be, and indeed had been on that point, he’d often wondered at the compulsion that drove his brother-in-law, or rather the source of it. On most other matters, Devil was a willing slave to Honoria’s wishes.

Now he had caught the same disease. Certainly, he was now victim to the same compulsion he’d long recognized in Devil.

He’d spent a restless night; by the time he’d finished breakfast this morning, he’d accepted that the hollowness centered somewhere below his breastbone wasn’t due to hunger.

Luckily, Caro had already been married once; she would doubtless take his reaction—his susceptibility—in her stride.

That, however, presupposed she’d recognized and accepted the true nature of his interest in her.

He was on his way to speak with her, to ensure that whatever else occurred between them, she was completely clear and unequivocally convinced on that point.

On the fact that he wanted her as his wife.

Leaving Atlas in the care of Geoffrey’s stableman, he walked up to the house through the gardens. As he started across the last stretch of lawn leading to the terrace, a distinct but distant snip, followed by a rustle, had him glancing to the left.

Fifty yards away, Caro stood in the center of the sunken rose garden clipping deadheads from the burgeoning bushes.

Garden shears tightly gripped, Caro snipped with abandon, plucking the sheared hips from the heavily laden bushes and dropping or tossing them to the flagstone path. Hendricks, Geoffrey’s gardener, would tidy up later and be grateful for her industry; meanwhile, attacking the bushes and cutting away the faded blooms, encouraging the rampant canes to flower even more profusely, was distinctly satisfying. Oddly calming, in some strange way soothi

ng the panicky irritation she felt whenever she thought of Michael.

Which was far too often for her liking.

She had no idea what the feeling presaged, no prior experience to call on, but instinct warned she stood on tricky ground where he was concerned, and she’d long ago learned to trust her instincts.

The discovery that she couldn’t be sure of managing him, indeed was no longer sure she’d successfully managed him at any point, had undermined her usual confidence. Her exasperated capitulation the previous evening, wise though hindsight had proved it to be, was another cause for worry—since when had she become so susceptible to the pressuring persuasions of a presumptuous male?

True, he’d been absolutely determined, but why had she succumbed? Given in? Surrendered?

Frowning direfully, she viciously decapitated another shriveled set of blooms.

She paused, frown fading…and felt a tingle of warmth, felt a lick of rising excitement frizzle along her nerves.

Lungs tightening, she looked up—and saw her nemesis, large as life, lounging against the stone arch, watching her. Inwardly she swore in Portuguese; the effect he had on her—whatever it was—was only getting worse. Now she could feel his gaze across a distance of ten paces!

A smile curved his lips. He pushed away from the arch and walked toward her.

Ruthlessly suppressing her wayward senses, she responded with a perfectly gauged smile, one that was welcoming, suitable for an old friend, yet clearly stated that that was the limit of their association. “Good morning—are you looking for Geoffrey? I believe he’s gone to look over the south fields.”

His smile deepened; his eyes remained fixed on hers. “No. I’m not after Geoffrey.”

His long, easy strides carried him to within a foot of her skirts before he halted. She let her eyes widen, outwardly laughingly surprised—inwardly starting to panic. He surprised her even more—panicked her even more—by reaching out, plucking the shears from her right hand while with his other hand he captured her fingers.

Her gloved fingers, she reminded herself, struggling to subdue her escalating tension.

He smiled into her eyes. “It’s you I came to see.”

He raised her hand; thanking heaven for her gardening gloves, she allowed one brow to rise, waiting for him to realize he couldn’t kiss her fingers. Amusement gleamed in the sky blue of his eyes, then he turned her hand, long fingers flicking the wrist-slit of the glove wide, bent his head, and placed a kiss—a disturbingly firm, distractingly hot, far-too-knowing kiss—directly over the spot beneath which her pulse raced.

For one instant, giddiness threatened, then she snapped her gaze to his face, watched him reading her reaction, saw the satisfaction in his eyes.

“Indeed?” Preserving her expression of polite friendliness required considerable effort. She retrieved her hand; she didn’t need to tug—he released it readily.

“Indeed. Are you busy?”