The Ideal Bride (31 page)

 
The sun was sinking behind the trees when Michael rose. She rose, too, watched while he took his leave of
 
Elizabeth
 
and Edward; when he turned to her, she gave him her hand and an easy smile. “Good-bye.”

 
Discussion of the ball had reminded her just how much there was yet to do, to organize, supervise, and manage. Regardless of their decision to embark on an affair, she did not need further distraction just now.

 
He held her hand, held her gaze, then raised her fingers and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “I’ll call on you tomorrow afternoon.”

 
She turned with him to the door; he still held her fingers. “Tomorrow will be very busy.” She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “There’s a great deal we have to do with both the preparations for the ball and our contribution to the fete.”

 
Pausing at the door, he looked down at her. “Nevertheless, I’ll be here midafternoon.” The words were a promise, underscored by the weight of his gaze. He again raised her fingers; his eyes on hers, he kissed them, then released her. “Look for me then.”

 
With a nod and that same intent look, he left.

 
She stood in the doorway listening to his retreating footsteps, and wondered… in agreeing to an affair, just what had she agreed to?

 
The question resonated in her mind the following afternoon when she stood on the terrace, hands on her hips, and glared at Michael.

 
She opened her mouth—

 
He pointed a finger at her nose. “
Without
argument. Remember?”

 
She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss through teeth unbecomingly clenched. “I—”

 
“You have precisely five minutes to change into your riding habit. I’ll meet you on the front steps with the horses.”

 
With that, he turned, went down the terrace steps, and strode away toward the stables—leaving her with her mouth open… and a sneaking suspicion she had no alternative but to fall in with his plans.

 
She’d never been so dictated to in her life!

 
Swinging around, muttering dire imprecations against males, all males, presumptuous or otherwise, she whipped off her apron, swung through the kitchens to check with Cook and Mrs. Judson, then hurried upstairs. Ten minutes later, after remembering and delivering the instructions she’d been on her way to give when the sight of Michael striding purposefully up to the house had distracted her, she hurried into the front hall.

 
Looking down, tugging on her riding gloves, she ran straight into a wall of solid male muscle her senses had no difficulty recognizing.

 
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she protested, bouncing off.

 
He steadied her, then locked one hand about one of hers. “Just as well.”

 
His growl made her blink, but she couldn’t see his face—he’d already turned and was striding for the door, towing her behind him. She had to hurry to keep up, frantically grabbing up her habit’s skirt so she could clatter down the steps in his wake.

 
“This is ridiculous!” she grumbled as he towed her relentlessly to Calista’s side.

 
“I couldn’t agree more.”

 
He halted by the mare’s side, swung around to lift her up. He closed his hands about her waist, then paused.

 
She looked up, met his eyes. As always, she was screamingly aware of her giddy senses’ preoccupation with him and his nearness, but she seemed to be growing used to the effect.

 
“Have you had an affair before?”

 
The question had her blinking her eyes wide. “No! Of course not…” The words were out before she’d thought.

 
But he merely nodded, somewhat grimly. “I thought not.”

 
With that, he lifted her to her saddle, held her stirrup while she slid her boot in.

 
Settling her skirts, she frowned at him as he went to his horse and mounted. “What’s that got to say to anything?”

 
Picking up his reins, he met her gaze. “You’re not exactly making it easy.”

 
She narrowed her eyes. “I told you.” She brought Calista up beside him and they set out along the drive. “There’s the ball, the fete—I’m busy.”

 
“You’re not—you’re skittish, and looking for excuses to avoid taking the plunge.”

 
She looked ahead; she made
no
attempt to meet his eyes, yet she felt his gaze on her face.

 
“You’re the epitome of efficiency, Caro—you can’t expect me to believe you can’t take two hours out of the afternoon of the day before what for you is a relatively minor ball.”

 
He was right, at least about that last. She frowned, more inwardly than outwardly. Was he right about the rest, too? She knew what she feared; had it really cut so deep, did the fear hold her so securely that she would unthinkingly, instinctively as he was suggesting, avoid any situation that might challenge it?

 
She glanced at him. He was watching her but, as their eyes met, she realized he wasn’t seeking to pressure her. He was, most definitely, seeking to understand her; as yet, he couldn’t.

 
Her heart gave a little twist, a small leap; she looked ahead. Unsure how she felt about being understood, or his wish to do so. After a moment of steady cantering, she cleared her throat. Drew breath and lifted her chin. “I might, indeed, appear to erect hurdles, but I assure you I don’t mean to.” She glanced at him. “I’m every bit as determined on our present course as you are.”

 
His lips lifted; his smile was all male. “In that case, don’t worry.” He held her gaze. “I’ll ignore your hurdles.”

 
She humphed and looked ahead, not at all sure she approved of such a tack, yet… as they cantered through the golden afternoon, she drew a certain measure of comfort from it. Regardless of what silly vacillations her fears might drive her to, he wasn’t going to allow her to avoid or resist him—to draw back. In battling her fears, it seemed she’d found an ally.

 
It wasn’t until they were almost at the clearing that she realized they’d retraced their route to the Rufus Stone. When they cantered into the wide field carpeted in the green and gold of fresh grass and turning leaves, she wondered why he’d chosen this place, wondered what he was planning.

 
They halted; he dismounted, tethered the horses, then came to lift her down. He lowered her slowly; even when she was steady on her feet, he didn’t let her go.

 
She looked up; their gazes locked. She felt the fascination between them draw tight, as he drew her closer and bent his head felt their mutual hunger awake.

 
With his lips, Michael brushed her temple, then bent lower to trace the curve of her ear and nuzzle the sweet hollow beneath. He inhaled, let her scent sink slowly through him, felt himself react. I should probably admit…“

 
He let the words trail away as he drew her fully against him.

 
Her hands sliding up, over his shoulders, she blinked at him. “What?”

 
His lips curved. He lowered his head. “I would have ignored your hurdles anyway.”

 
He took her mouth, felt her give it, and herself—felt her sink against him. For long moments, he simply savored her, and her implicit surrender. Yet the isolation of the clearing was not why they were here. Nevertheless, capturing her senses, focusing them, and her, on all that would be between them, on the ultimate intimacy that would soon exist before he broached his immediate objective, wasn’t a bad idea.

 
Eventually, he drew back; when he lifted his head, she opened her eyes, searched his. “Why did you choose here?”

 
He might be able to addle her senses, but her wits were clearly more resilient. Releasing her, he took her hand, drew her to walk with him toward the stone. “When we came here last time…” He waited until she lifted her gaze to his, until he could capture her eyes. “As we rode into the clearing, I was baiting you.” He saw that she remembered, was remembering. “I wanted a reaction, but the reaction I got was not one I can interpret, even now.”

 
Looking ahead, she halted; he halted, too, but didn’t release her hand. He shifted to face her. “We were discussing the life of an ambassador’s wife, namely your own, and the duties you or any such lady had to perform.”

 
Her features set. Without looking at him, she tugged her hand; he tightened his grip. “You warned me of every ambassador’s need for a suitable helpmate—I mentioned that the same held true for government ministers.” Relentlessly he continued, “I then pointed out that Camden had been a master ambassador.”

 
Her fingers twitched in his, but she refused to look at him; her expression was stony, her chin ominously set. “I brought you here to ask you what about that upset you. And why.”

 
For a long moment, she remained utterly still, statuelike but for the pulse he could see thudding at the base of her throat. She was upset again, but in a different way… or the same way compounded by something more.

 
Finally, she drew in a deep breath, fleetingly glanced at him, but didn’t meet his eyes. “I…” Again she breathed deeply, lifted her head and fixed her gaze on the trees. “Camden married me because he saw in me the perfect hostess—the ultimate ambassadorial helpmate.”

 
Her voice was flat, without inflection; denied her eyes, any chance of reading her feelings, he was left guessing, trying to follow her direction. “Camden was a career diplomat, a very experienced and canny one by the time he married you.” He paused, then added, “He was right.”

 
“I know.”

 
The words were so tight with emotion they quavered. She wouldn’t look at him; he pressed her hand. “Caro…” When she didn’t respond, he quietly said, “I can’t see if you won’t show me.”

 
“I don’t
want
you to see!” She tried to fling her hands in the air— found her fingers locked in his and tugged. “Oh, for goodness sake! Let me go. I can hardly run away from you, can I?”

 
The fact she recognized that made him ease his grip. Wrapping her arms about her, she paced, looking down, circling the stone. Agitation shimmered about her, yet her steps were definite; her expression, what he glimpsed of it, suggested she was wrestling, but with what he was still at a loss to guess.

 
Eventually she spoke, but didn’t slow her pacing. “Why do you need to know?”

 
“Because I don’t want to hurt you again.” He hadn’t even needed to think to reply.

 
His words made her pause; she glanced fleetingly at him, then resumed her pacing—from one side of the stone to the other, leaving the chest-high monument between them.

 
After another fraught pause, she spoke, her words low but clear, “I was young—very young. Only seventeen. Camden was fifty-eight. Think about that.” She paced on. “Think about how a fifty-eight-year-old man, a very worldly, experienced, still handsome and devastatingly charming but ruthless fifty-eight-year-old man convinces a seventeen-year-old girl, one who hadn’t even had a Season, to marry him. It was so easy for him to make me believe in something that simply wasn’t there.”

 
It hit him. Not like a blow but with the keen edge of a knife. He suddenly found himself bleeding from a place he hadn’t even known could be cut. “Oh, Caro.”