The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)

The slow beat of the fan faltered, then resumed. “Yes, it is.” The duchess met her eyes and smiled. “We have spent much of the last years with the embassies in Scandanavia.”

“Ah—no wonder the weather here seems warm to you, then.”

“Indeed.” The countess stepped in to ask, “Is this area usually so favored by the diplomatic set during summer?”

Caro nodded. “There’s always a goodly number of the embassy set about—it’s pleasant countryside close to London, and close to the sailing about the Isle of Wight.”

“Ah, yes.” The countess met her gaze. “That, of course, is why Ferdinand would have us here.”

Caro smiled—and wondered. After an instant’s pause, she turned the conversation into other channels. The duchess and countess followed her lead, but seemed disinclined to let her move on to chat with other ladies.

Or so she felt; the gentlemen returned to the drawing room before she had a chance to test them.

Ferdinand was among the first to stroll in. He saw her instantly; smiling, he came to join her.

Michael walked in some way behind Ferdinand; he paused just inside the door, scanning the room—he saw her by the windows, flanked by the duchess and countess.

For one instant, Caro felt a strange dislocation. Across the room, she faced two men. Between her and Michael, Ferdinand, smiling wolfishly, the epitome of Latin handsomeness and overwhelming charm, approached, his gaze locked on her. Then Michael stepped forward. His attractiveness was more subtle, his strength less so. He walked more slowly, more gracefully, yet with his long-legged stride he was soon only paces behind Ferdinand.

She had no doubt of Ferdinand’s intention, but it wasn’t the wolf who commanded her senses. Even as she forced her gaze to Ferdinand’s face, with her usual easy assurance returned his smile, she was infinitely more aware of Michael slowly, purposefully, advancing.

Almost as if the movement had been choreographed, the duchess and countess murmured their excuses, one on either side lightly touched her hands in farewell, then they swept forward. Flowing around Ferdinand with barely a nod, they closed with Michael.

He had to stop and talk with them.

“My dear Caro, you will forgive me, I know, but you are here.” Ferdinand gestured theatrically. “What would you?”

“Indeed, I’ve no idea,” she replied. “What would I?”

Ferdinand took her arm. “My obsession with Camden Sutcliffe—your presence is an opportunity I cannot resist.” He turned her; under his direction, they strolled down the long room. With Ferdinand’s head bent to hers, it would appear they were deep in some discussion; given the present company, it was unlikely any would interrupt.

His expression one of scholarly interest, Ferdinand continued, “I would, if I may, ask more about an aspect that has always intrigued me. Sutcliffe’s house was here—it must have played a considerable part in his life. Must have”—frowning, he searched for phrases—“been the place he retreated to, where he found greatest comfort.”

She raised her brows. “I’m not sure, in Camden’s case, that his country home—his ancestral home—played as large and important a role as one might suppose.”

Why Ferdinand was pursuing such a tack—surely a strange approach to seducing her—escaped her, yet it was a useful topic with which to pass the time. Especially if it served to keep Ferdinand safely distracted from more direct ventures. “Camden didn’t spend much time here—at Sutcliffe Hall—during his lifetime. Or at least, during his years of diplomatic service.”

“But he grew up here, yes? And this Sutcliffe Hall was his—not just his ancestral home, but it belonged to him, true?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

They strolled on, Ferdinand frowning. “So you are saying he only occasionally visited this Hall during his ambassadorship.”

“That’s right. Usually his visits were fleeting—no more than a day or two, rarely as long as a week, but after the deaths of each of his first two wives he returned to the Hall for some months, so I suppose it’s true to say that the Hall was his ultimate retreat.” She glanced at Ferdinand. “By his wish, he’s buried there, in the old chapel in the grounds.”

“Ah!” Ferdinand nodded as if that last revelation meant much to him.

A disruption within the company had them both looking up; the first of the guests were departing.

Engaged in nodding a distant farewell to the gentleman from the Board of Trade and his wife, Caro didn’t register Ferdinand’s abrupt change of tack until he shifted between her and the rest of the room and, leaning close, murmured, “Dear Caro, it is such a lovely summer night—come walk with me on the terrace.”

Instinctively, she looked toward the terrace, revealed through a pair of open doors that just happened to lie a few paces from them.

To her surprise, she found herself being expertly herded toward the doors.

Instincts briefly warred; it was her practice not to give ground literally or figuratively in such matters, more to spare her would-be seducers than through any concern for her safety—she’d always emerged triumphant from such encounters and had no doubt she always would—yet in this case, her curiosity was aroused.

She acquiesced with a regal inclination of her head and allowed Ferdinand to guide her through the doors and out onto the moonlit flags.