The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)

She humphed, shot him another, more dire, warning glance, and walked on even faster. Muttered beneath her breath. “Damn presumptuous male.”

“What was that?” He strolled patiently beside her.

“I told you—never mind.”

On reaching the house, she discovered Geoffrey had just returned; with immense relief, she all but bundled Michael into his presence and escaped.

To her room. To sink down on her bed and try to work out what had happened. That Michael had kissed her—that he’d wanted to and managed to—was strange enough, but why had she kissed him back?

Mortification washed over her; rising, she went to the washstand, poured cold water from the ewer into the basin, and washed her warm face. Patting her cheeks dry, she remembered, heard again his gently amused tone. He’d said he’d teach her, but he wouldn’t of course. He’d only said that to gloss over the awkward moment.

She returned to the bed, sinking down on the edge. Her pulse was still galloping, her nerves in a tangle, yet the knot was not one she recognized.

The shadows progressed across the floor while she tried to make sense of what had occurred, and even more what she’d felt.

When the gong for luncheon rang through the house, she blinked and looked up—in the mirror of her dressing table across the room, she saw her face, her expression soft, her fingers lightly tracing her lips.

With a muttered curse, she lowered her hand, stood, shook out her skirts, and headed for the door.

7

She would avoid him henceforth; it was the only viable solution. She certainly was not going to spend her time imagining what learning to kiss under his tutelage would be like.

She had a ball to organize and lots of guests to house—more than enough to keep her busy.

And that evening she had a dinner to attend at Leadbetter Hall, where the Portuguese delegation was spending the summer.

Leadbetter Hall was near Lyndhurst. The invitation had not included Edward; in the circumstances, that wasn’t surprising. She’d ordered the carriage for seven-thirty; a few minutes past the appointed time, she left her room suitably gowned and coiffed, her rose magenta silk gown draped to perfection, cut to make the most of her less-than-impressive bosom. A long strand of pearls interspersed with amethysts circled her throat once before hanging to her waist. Pearl and amethyst drops dangled from her ears; the same jewels adorned the gold filigree comb that anchored the mass of her unruly hair.

That hair, thick, springy, and all but impossible to tame—to make conform to any fashionable style—had been the bane of her existence until a supremely haughty but well-disposed archduchess had advised her to stop trying to fight a battle destined to be lost, and instead embrace the inevitable as a mark of individuality.

The ascerbic recommendation had not immediately changed her view, but gradually she’d realized that the person most bothered by her hair was herself, and if she stopped agonizing over it and instead took its oddity in her stride—even embraced it as the archduchess had suggested—then others were, indeed, inclined to see it simply as a part of her uniqueness.

Now, if truth be told, the relative uniqueness of her appearance buoyed her; the individuality was something she clung to. Gliding to the stairs, hearing her skirts sussurating about her, reassured that she looked well, she put a gloved hand to the balustrade and started down.

Her gaze lowered to the front hall, to where Catten stood waiting to open the front door. Serenely, she glided down the last flight—a well-shaped head of dark brown locks atop a pair of broad shoulders, elegantly clad, came into view in the corridor running alongside the stairs. Then Michael turned, looked up, and saw her.

She slowed; taking in his attire, she inwardly cursed. But there was nothing she could do; returning his smile, she continued her descent. He strolled to the bottom of the stairs to meet her, offered his hand as she neared.

“Good evening.” She kept her smile plastered in place as she surrendered her fingers to his strong clasp. “I take it you, too, have been invited to dine at Leadbetter Hall?”

His eyes held hers. “Indeed. I thought, in the circumstances, I might share your carriage.”

Geoffrey had followed Michael from the study. “An excellent idea, especially with those scoundrels who attacked Miss Trice still at large.”

She raised her brows. “I hardly think they’d attack a carriage.”

“Who’s to say?” Geoffrey exchanged a distinctly masculine glance with Michael. “Regardless, it’s only sensible that Michael escort you.”

That, unfortunately, was impossible to argue. Resigning herself to the inevitable—and really, despite the silly expectation tightening her nerves, what had she to fear?—she smiled diplomatically and inclined her head. “Indeed.” She lifted a brow at Michael. “Are you ready?”

He met her gaze, smiled. “Yes.” Drawing her to his side, he laid her hand on his sleeve. “Come—let’s away.”

Lifting her head, drawing in a deep breath, ignoring the tension that had escalated dramatically now he’d moved so close, she regally nodded to Geoffrey and consented to be led to the waiting carriage.

Michael handed her up, then followed. He sat on the seat opposite her, watching while she fussed with her skirts, then straightened her silver-spangled shawl. The footman shut the door; the carriage lurched, then rolled off. He caught Caro’s eye. “Have you any idea who else will be present tonight?”

Her brows rose. “Yes, and no.”