The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)
From across the room, Michael watched her slender figure disappear from sight, and inwardly cursed. He didn’t waste time considering what Leponte might be up to; deftly—with the skill that had brought him to the Prime Minister’s notice—he disengaged from the duke and his aide, ostensibly intending to have a word with the gentlemen from the Foreign Office before they departed.
He’d nominated them because they were standing in a group conveniently close to the terrace doors. Cutting smoothly through the other guests, he was aware that the countess and duchess were watching him with increasing agitation. By the time they realized he wasn’t stopping to chat with the last group before the doors…
Ignoring the distant rustle of silks as they moved—too late—to intercept him, he strolled with his usual languid air out onto the terrace.
He barely paused to locate Caro and Leponte, then continued toward them. They stood by the balustrade some little way along, wreathed in shadow yet quite visible; the moon was nearly full. Approaching with lazy, unthreatening strides, he took in the prevailing tensions; Leponte stood close to Caro as she apparently admired the play of moonlight and shadow across the manicured lawns. He was not touching her, although one hand hovered, as if he’d intended to, but had been distracted.
Caro was, if not relaxed, then certainly assured—her usual calm and collected self. The tension that had gripped him faded; she clearly didn’t need him to rescue her.
If anyone needed rescuing, it was Leponte.
That seemed plain as, hearing him, the Portuguese glanced his way. Befuddlement, utter and complete, etched his face.
Drawing near enough to hear their conversation—or rather, Caro’s dissertation on the principles of landscape gardening as propounded by Capability Brown and his followers—Michael understood. He could almost find it in him to feel sorry for Ferdinand.
Caro sensed his approach, glanced his way, and smiled. “I was just explaining to Mr. Leponte that this garden was originally laid out by Capability Brown, and then improved more recently by Humphrey Repton. It’s an amazing example of their combined talents, don’t you think?”
Michael met her gaze, smiled lightly. “Indubitably.”
She rattled on. The duchess and countess had paused in the drawing room doorway; Caro saw them and beckoned. For their part in Ferdinand’s scheme to get her alone, she subjected them to a lecture on gardening that would have made an enthusiast wilt. The countess, looking highly conscious, tried to slip away; Caro linked her arm in hers and extolled the theories of coppicing in unrelenting detail.
Michael stood back and let her have her revenge; although she never stepped over any social line, he was quite certain it was that, and so were her victims. Ferdinand looked sheepish, but also thankful to have her attention deflected from him; Michael wondered just how ruthless she’d been in dismissing Ferdinand’s advances.
Finally, the duchess,
edging away, murmured that she had to return to her departing guests. Still enthusing, Caro consented to follow her back into the drawing room.
Ten minutes later, with the company thinning, he interrupted her eloquence. “We have a long drive ahead of us—we should join the exodus.”
She glanced at him, met his gaze. Her eyes were beaten silver, quite impenetrable. Then she blinked, nodded. “Yes—I daresay you’re right.”
Five minutes more saw them taking leave of their hosts; Ferdinand walked with them to the carriage. When Caro paused before the open carriage door and gave him her hand, he bowed over it with courtly flair.
“My dear Mrs. Sutcliffe, I greatly look forward to being present at your ball.” He straightened, met her eyes. “I will look forward to seeing the gardens of Sutcliffe Hall, and to your explanation of their wonders.”
Michael gave the man credit for gumption—few others would have dared. Yet if he’d expected to discompose Caro, he’d misjudged.
She smiled, sweetly, and informed him, “I’m afraid you’ve misread the invitation. The ball is to be held at Bramshaw House, not Sutcliffe Hall.”
Noting Ferdinand’s surprise and the frown that followed it, the frown he quickly hid, Caro inclined her head, all graciousness. “I will look forward to seeing you and your party then.”
Turning to the carriage, she accepted Michael’s hand and climbed up. She sat on the seat facing forward. An instant later, he filled the doorway. He looked at her; in the dimness she couldn’t see his face.
“Shift along.”
She frowned, but he was already looming over her, waiting for her to move so he could sit beside her. An argument with Ferdinand still close enough to hear would be undignified.
Hiding a grimace, she did as he asked. He sat, far too close for her liking, and the footman shut the door. An instant later, the carriage rocked, and they were on their way.
They’d barely started along the drive when Michael asked, “Why was Leponte so put out that your ball will not be at Sutcliffe Hall?”
“I don’t really know. He seems to have developed a fascination for Camden—studying what influences made him what he was.”
“Leponte?”
Michael fell silent. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his large body on the seat beside her. Even though his thigh was not touching hers, she could sense its heat. As usual, his nearness made her feel peculiarly fragile. Delicate.
Finally, he said, “I find that hard to believe.”