The Ideal Bride (20 page)

 
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.”

 
He listened while she listed those she knew would be present, digressing to give him a potted history of the sort of information most useful for him to know, then elaborating on those she suspected might also have been summoned to sup with the Portuguese.

 
Sitting back in the shadows of the carriage, lips curving, he wondered if she was even conscious of her performance—the exact response he would have wished for from his wife. Her knowledge was wide, her grasp of what he most needed to know superior; while the carriage rumbled along the leafy lanes, he continued to question, to encourage her to interact with him both as he wished, and also in the manner with which she was most comfortable.

 
That last was his real goal. While her information would certainly be of help, his primary aim was to put her at her ease. To encourage her to focus on the diplomatic milieu to which she was so accustomed, and in which she was a consummate participant.

 
Time enough to engage with her more personally later, on their way home.

 
Aware that on the return journey she’d be in a much more approachable mood, one more amenable to his intentions, if she’d passed a pleasant evening to that point, he set out to, as far as he was able, ensure her enjoyment of the night.

 
They reached Leadbetter Hall in good time, alighting before the steps leading up to imposing doors. He escorted her through the doors to where the duchess and countess stood waiting just inside the high-ceilinged front hall.

 
The ladies exchanged greetings, complimenting each other on their toilettes, then the duchess turned to him. “We are delighted to receive you, Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby. It is our hope that we will do so many more times in the coming years.”

 
Straightening from his bow, he replied with easy assurance, sensing Caro’s gaze on his face; turning from greeting the countess, he caught her approving glance.

 
Almost as if she were starting to view him as a protégé… he hid the true tenor of his smile. With his customary elegant confidence, he took her arm and steered her into the drawing room.

 
They paused on the threshold, glancing swiftly around, getting their bearings. There was a brief hiatus in the hum of conversations as those already there turned to look, then people smiled and returned to their discussions.

 
He glanced at Caro; arrow-straight beside him, she all but vibrated with pleasurable expectation. Confidence, assurance, and serenity, all were there in her face, in her expression, in her stance. His gaze drifted over her, surreptitiously drank her in; he again felt a surge of primitive emotion, a simple possessiveness.

 
She was the wife he needed, and intended to have.

 
Recalling his plan, he turned her toward the fireplace. “The duke and count first, I think?”

 
She nodded. “Indubitably.”

 
It was simple enough to remain by her side as they circled the drawing room, stopping by each knot of guests, exchanging introductions and greetings. His memory was almost as good as Caro’s; she’d been right in predicting the presence of most of those there. Those she hadn’t foreseen included two gentlemen from the Foreign Office and one from the Board of Trade, along with their wives. All three men instantly recognized him; each found a moment to stop by his side and explain his connection with the duke and the count, and the still-absent ambassador.

 
Turning back to the group with whom he and Caro were engaged, Michael discovered that Ferdinand Leponte had insinuated himself into the circle on Caro’s other side.

 
“Leponte.” He and the Portuguese exchanged nods—polite but, on Leponte’s part, suspicious and assessing. Having already taken Ferdinand’s measure, he resigned himself to, at least outwardly, ignoring the Portuguese’s attempts to—why mince words?—seduce his intended bride.

 
Creating a diplomatic incident would not endear him to the Prime Minister. Besides, Caro’s formidable reputation—the one Ferdinand had yet to properly comprehend—was clear proof that she was unlikely to need any help in seeing the Portuguese off. Better men had tried and fallen at her gates.

 
While chatting with the Polish charge d’affaires, from the corner of his eye Michael watched Ferdinand deploy what he had to admit was considerable charm attempting to draw Caro away from him; her hand still rested on his arm. He was acutely aware of the weight of her fingers; they didn’t shift, flicker, or grip, just remained steadfastly where they were. From what he caught of their exchanges, the Portuguese was making little headway.

 
Ferdinand: “Your eyes, dear Caro, are silver moons in the heaven of your face.”

 
Caro, brows rising: “Really? Two moons. How strange.”

 
There was just the right ripple of amusement in her tone to totally depress any loverlike pretensions Ferdinand was nursing. Glancing his way, Michael saw irritation flash fleetingly through Ferdinand’s dark eyes, a fractional downward tightening of his mobile mouth before his charming mask re-formed, and he rattled in once more, tilting at Caro’s walls.

 
Michael could have informed him that such an approach was pointless. It was necessary to take Caro by surprise and so get
inside
her defenses; once up, in place, guarding her virtue—why, in her circumstances, her virtue required such vigilant preservation he hadn’t yet divined—those defenses were virtually impossible to shake. Certainly not in any social setting. They’d been forged, tested, and perfected in what must have been a highly exacting arena.

 
Returning to his conversation with the charge d’affaires, he confirmed that Mr. Kosminsky would, indeed, be attending Caro’s ball and was willing to assist in ensuring said ball was not marred by any unhappy occurrence.

 
The diminutive Pole puffed out his chest. “It will be an honor to serve in protecting Mrs. Sutcliffe’s peace of mind.”

 
Hearing her name, Caro grasped the opportunity to turn to Kosminsky. She smiled, and the little man glowed. “Thank you. I know it’s an imposition of sorts, yet—”

 
She glibly bound Kosminsky to be her willing slave, at least as far as keeping her ball trouble-free.

 
Standing between them, Michael silently appreciated her performance, then he glanced at Ferdinand and once again caught a glimpse or chagrin. He realized that Leponte, viewing him as a rival for Caro’s favors, wasn’t bothering to hide his aggravation at her dismissiveness from him.

 
Leponte was, however, being careful to hide his reaction from Caro,

 
The realization sharpened Michael’s attention. From the corner of his eye, he watched Ferdinand consider Caro measuringly. There was an intensity in that assessment that did not fit the mold or a holidaying foreign diplomat looking for a little diversion in the bucolic bliss of the English countryside.

 
Caro threw a comment his way; smiling easily, with practiced facility he resumed his part in the discussion.

 
Yet some part of him remained alert, focused on Ferdinand.

 
Dinner was announced. The guests paired up and strolled into the large dining room. Michael found himself seated near the duke and count; Portugal had for centuries been one of England’s closest allies— those gentlemen’s interest in learning his stance on various issues and educating him as to theirs was entirely understandable.

 
Less understandable was Caro’s placement—at the far end of the table, separated from the duchess by Ferdinand, with an ancient Portuguese admiral on her other side and the countess opposite. Although at least a third of those present were English, there were no compatriots near her.

 
Not, of course, that such a situation would bother her.

 
It did bother him.

 
Caro was aware of the peculiarity of her placement. If Camden had been alive and she’d been attending with him, then the position was correct, seating her with the other senior diplomats’ wives. However…

 
She wondered, fleetingly, whether her appearing on Michael’s arm and remaining by his side in the drawing room had given rise to an inaccurate assumption; considering the duchess’s and countess’s experience, she jettisoned that explanation. If they’d suspected any pending connection between her and Michael, one or the other would have quietly inquired. Neither had, which meant she was seated where she was for some other purpose; while she smiled and chatted and the courses came and went, she wondered what that might be.

 
On her right, Ferdinand was charmingly attentive. On her left, old Admiral Pilocet snoozed, waking only to peer at the dishes as each course was set out before succumbing to slumber once more.

 
“My dear Caro, you must try some of these mussels.”

 
Returning her attention to Ferdinand, she consented to be served with a concoction of mussels and shallots in herb broth.

 
“They are English mussels, of course,” Ferdinand gestured with his fork, “but the dish is from Albufeira—my home.”

 
Increasingly intrigued by his persistence, she decided to let herself be drawn. “Indeed?” Skewering a mussel on the tines of her fork, she considered it, then glanced at Ferdinand. “Do I take it you live near your uncle and aunt?” She popped the morsel into her mouth and watched his gaze lock on her lips.

 
He blinked. “Ah…” His eyes returned to hers. “Yes.” He nodded and looked down at his plate. “We all—my parents and cousins and my other uncles and aunts—live at the
castelo
there.” He turned his brilliantly charming smile on her. “It is built on the cliffs overlooking the sea.” He looked soulfully into her eyes. “You should visit with us there—Portugal has been too long without your fair presence.”

 
She laughed. “I greatly fear Portugal will have to grin and bear my absence. I have no plans to leave England’s shores in the foreseeable future.”

 
“Ah, no!” Ferdinand’s features reflected dramatic pain. “It is a loss, at least in our little corner of the world.”

 
She smiled and finished the last of her mussels.

 
Their plates were cleared. Ferdinand leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We all understand, of course, that you were devoted to Ambassador Sutcliffe, and even now revere his memory.”

 
He paused, watching closely. Her smile in place, she reached for her wineglass, raised it to her lips; as she sipped, she met his dark eyes. “Indeed.”

 
She wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss Ferdinand and his by-English-standards histrionic behavior. He was probing, searching—for what she had no clue. But while he was good, she was better. She gave him no inkling of her true feelings and waited to see where he would go.

 
He cast his eyes down, feigning… shyness? “I have long harbored a regard bordering on fascination for Sutcliffe—he was the consummate diplomat. There is so much that can be learned from a study of his life—his successes, his strategies.”