The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)

Inwardly smiling, she made no comment, accepting—allowing—their protection without argument. She was fond of them both, albeit in different ways; if watching over her made them happy, and they could manage it without bothering her, she could see no reason to complain.

The next morning, an hour after breakfast, Caro sat on the terrace and listened to Elizabeth practice a particularly difficult sonata. Edward had remained in the drawing room to turn the music sheets; she’d smiled and drifted out to sit in the cool air of the bright morning—and think.

About Michael. And herself.

Since they’d parted yesterday, she had, deliberately, not thought about him, about them—wanting—needing—a certain distance from which to see more clearly, to be able to examine, study, and understand what was going on.

Despite all, yesterday had been a peaceful day. The hours spent with Michael had been soothing, untouched by any emotional upheavals. A time when they’d both simply existed and let what would be, be. The evening had passed in much the same vein, through a quiet dinner with Geoffrey, Edward, and Elizabeth, followed by their usual musical interlude in the drawing room and lastly a walk in the balmy evening, accompanied by Edward and Elizabeth, before retiring to her room and her couch.

Somewhat to her surprise, she’d slept very well. Long walks through the countryside—long hours wrapped in Michael’s arms.

This morning, she’d risen, refreshed and eager for the day. After breakfast, she’d spent time with Mrs. Judson going over household matters; now, her slate clear, she was looking forward to turning her mind to what, running beneath all else in her life, was becoming an obsession.

Michael—yes, but not just him. She was either too old, too experienced, or had never been the sort to become infatuated, fascinated by another person, by his charms, by aspects of his personality. After spending so many years in diplomatic spheres, where such attributes were assumed, put on like costumes whenever necessary, she knew them for the flimsy things they were, knew their real worth.

Her fascination didn’t center on Michael himself, but on what they, together, created between them.

That was where the power that both he and she were drawn to resided. It was something she could sense, at times so real she felt she could almost touch it; it arose from the link that was forming between them, that grew from the amalgam of their selves….

Frowning, she rose, drew her fringed shawl about her shoulders, and stepped down onto the lawn.

It was so hard to see what was happening—impossible to reduce the emotions and sensations, and that simple overwhelming certainty that engulfed her when she was in his arms, to statement, to logical rational description from which an argument could be formed, a position defined, action planned….

She stopped, tipped her head back, and looked up at the sky. “Heaven help me—I really have become far too much like Camden.”

Shaking her head, she looked down and continued on, eyes fixed unseeing on the path before her feet. Trying to understand what was developing between her and Michael…using logic wasn’t going to work. What she was dealing with operated beyond logic, of that she felt quite sure.

Emotion, then. That, indeed, seemed the more likely key. She needed, would feel more comfortable having, some sense of whither they—and their new and strange relationship—were heading, where it was leading them, both she and he. If she was to let emotion guide her…

She grimaced, and paced on.

No help there either; she didn’t know—couldn’t explain—what she felt. Not because she was unsure of what she felt, but because she had no words for it, no measure for it, no recognition of what the feelings burgeoning and growing stronger every time she and

Michael met were, let alone meant.

She’d never felt like this before. Not about Camden, not about any man—and especially not with any other man. That was another aspect about which she was certain—whatever she felt, Michael felt it, too. It was a mutual development, affecting him as much, and in much the same way, as she.

And she suspected his reaction was the same as hers. They were both mature; they’d both seen the world, were comfortable in who and what they were, confident of their positions in society. Yet what was evolving between them was a fresh field, one on which neither had previously dallied, one with horizons neither had previously explored.

When faced with a new and different challenge, they both possessed temperaments that impelled them to walk confidently in and examine, study—assess what new opportunity life might be offering them. She was conscious of an eager interest, of something more compelling than mere fascination, a need more than an inclination to go forward and learn more. Understand more. And perhaps, ultimately…

She broke off her thoughts, blinked—and realized she stood facing the gate leading out of the garden. She muttered an oath and glanced back; she hadn’t meant to walk this far, hadn’t been conscious of doing so. She’d been thinking, and her feet had brought her here.

Her instinctive destination was clear, yet she knew Edward, once free of Elizabeth’s sonata, would look for her to watch over her. But he knew of the cottage and that she often walked there; when he discovered she wasn’t in the house, he’d guess….

Facing forward, she looked at the path wending its way across the first meadow and into the first stretch of woodland. The path cut through a number of such wooded stands, but none were dark or dense; with the sun streaming down, it was difficult to imagine anyone skulking along the way, waiting to shoot or attack her.

And really, why would they? Looking along the path, she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried, drum up any fear. The pellets striking Henry and the arrow had been accidents; admittedly, the arrow striking the tree so close to her had been momentarily scarifying—she could still hear the dull thwack in her mind—and she could still remember the desperation, the cold clutch of fear that had gripped her when Henry had bolted, but Michael had rescued her—she’d come to no harm at all. As for the attack on Miss Trice, that had been nasty and shocking, but hadn’t truly touched her at all; there was no reason to suppose she’d been the intended target.

She pushed the gate open and walked on. Her instincts had been right; she wanted to go to the cottage. Perhaps needed to be within those walls to revisit her feelings of yesterday and delve past the superficial to see what lay beneath. Besides, she was sure Michael would call soon—he’d know where she’d gone.

Eyes down, for once blind to the beauties of the countryside around her, she walked steadily on. And returned to her interrupted thoughts. To, perhaps, the most crucial point. Where, ultimately, was her liaison with Michael and the emotions that generated leading her? And was it, all aspects and feelings considered, a place she was prepared to go?

Michael left Atlas with Geoffrey’s stableman and walked over the lawns to the house. He half expected to see Caro drift out onto the terrace to meet him. Instead, Elizabeth walked briskly out from the drawing room, looking about. She saw him and waved, then looked to his left.

Following her gaze, he saw Edward striding up from the summerhouse. The younger man waved and strode faster; premonition, faint but real, caressed Michael’s nape.

Edward spoke as soon as he was within hearing distance. “Caro’s gone off somewhere. She was on the terrace, but…”